Through a Glass Darkly

Paul and I had a great brunch at a river inn yesterday with one of my oldest friends and his wife.  When I say great, I mean that it's a relief to communicate with shorthand with people who have been through the same wars.  Roll up your sleeves, compare scars.  No need for chit chat or ID. 

Waiter, another bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc. Let's let THAT do the talking. 

We used to talk about that when I was stationed in the military overseas, that you recognized soldiers out of uniform by odd specific things: shined shoes, creased jeans. Weirdo hair parts.  Especially that, lol. 

Once you realized what was giving you away, you shed. And you stop talking about it. 

You feel naked for a while, but your nakedness is a shiny object, distracting observers from the real show.

It's the same, I'm finding, with getting older.  

  

It's an unnaturally warm winter.  People seem disappointed, like we haven't suffered enough to have daffodils.  But I don't remember extreme cold winters.  I've always been disappointed that the winters weren't harsh enough to enjoy a fireplace, to enjoy the daffodils already pushing up.

I took a trip across country 25 years ago. Starting in January and driving west and south, daffodils were always coming up. Completely screwed up my sense of time. A shaman told me I had to do a soul retrieval to reset my circadian rhythms.  

I did, but my rhythms are off again.  Time seems to be bending in on itself as it could be any old time at all.  Any old season. I don't seem to be living in a time zone anymore. 

At brunch, the wife of my friend tells us that her sister just died. Suddenly.  Like 2 weeks ago.  I remind her that, even though I think of her mainly as my friend's wife, I've actually known her for 25 years and that I met her sister when I visited her and my friend that many years ago.  

On that cross country trip looking at daffodils with my first husband. 

All four of us are veterans of that war.

I remember her sister--a lovely blonde--dancing to the music on the radio in the kitchen as dinner was being made, pulling me into their circle. The sisters were Texans and I loved their raucous laughter, their noisy fun.  Loosened up my tight east coast ass, I'll tell you, and I learned to laugh loudly too. 

These friends have children who've abandoned them. We talk about them in the present tense, doing stupid silly things when they were twelve.  Or five. We laugh loudly at their antics. Scold them as if they could still be rehabilitated.  

We wear those combat medals too.  Sewed on our sleeves with invisible thread. 

We laugh through several more bottles of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc.  And all at once the sun is setting on our brunch. We have things to do in several time zones. We head for our cars, not making plans to see each other again--we never do--and yet we always do.

If not now, some other time.  With the same people.