Today’s the anniversary of my parents’ wedding. I’d tell you how many years they’ve been married, but my mom’s not big on numbers, so, as a little present for Mother’s Day, I’ll have to leave you guessing.
I called her this morning, and she told me that she can’t believe that so many years (note vagueness) have gone by, because she feels so young. (She also looks so young.) Then she told me that my Pop, her father, always used to say that our eyes are meant to look outward, that we’re built not to be able to view our own faces for a reason. This way, our insides don’t know how old our outsides really are — they’re not supposed to. And we can always be forever young if we choose never to look.
My Pop, who passed away in 2008 after a lengthy illness, was so great. Funny. Smart. Kind. He was a disgruntled writer, writing in a time and world in which nobody cared about writing. If he only knew how much I cared, how, as a little girl, I used to sneak peaks at his writing notebooks, hidden away in his drawers. If he only knew how much of an influence he had on me, and how much of my writing was inspired by him.
This one’s for you, Pop. I miss you.