At fifty-seven sometimes I am mature, but these days I’m more like a frightened young man. I am happy sometimes, but like the weather, things have gotten pretty dreary. I jogged in the light rain for fifteen minutes around the parking lot circle. My mother used to march through the downstairs rooms to big band music playing on NPR until Dad said she was wearing a track into the carpet.
Now I’m taking my good friend for a frozen coffee at Frederick Coffee Shop–not much conversation, but I am comfortable with her in silence. It will be a quiet Christmas this year, and that’s OK with me.