One of the sobering realities of growing older is the recognition that there are paths you’ll never wander again — that you swore you’d never want to.
It was an early autumn afternoon, and it was just the two of us at Jonah’s backyard jungle gym. This grandson, with the thatch of dark brown hair, always has had a special place in my heart because he is in that unenviable middle child position in a family of three boys.
The project is so monumental that we’ve put if off for eight years. And that’s a lot of procrastinating.
I try to resist.
The extra leaves for the dining room table have been dusted off and jammed into place. The 18 unmatched chairs are being assembled around that table in a dining room that seems to have shrunk since last Rosh Hashanah. A huge brisket is in the freezer, hogging up space.
Our neighbors are down the shore.
When my husband and I left on our honeymoon decades ago, we proudly carried the matched luggage that his sister had given us as a gift. The two suitcases were handsome indeed — a strong leather set in pale taupe with shiny locks.
His name was Irv. I was so predisposed to dislike him that I even found fault with his name.
My heart is pounding.
On so many Mother’s Days, I gave my mother dainty earrings in little boxes wrapped in pretty paper. I would choose those earrings with care to match her green eyes.