Recently I had occasion to see some photos of people I knew over forty years ago. They were all together at a reunion, laughing and having a great time. I was sorry to have missed it. Unfortunately, I only recognized three people out of about fifteen. The others looked, well, like someone’s parents. And it made me stop and stare. These are the people I was young with. The ones I lived with in the huge mayor’s mansion, the rock and roll band I cooked for and laughed with and danced to. That was the house where I had a spring green bedroom with dark green trim and straw on the floor that eventually the cats discovered, necessitating my throwing it out the window into the garden, two stories below. The place where I was sick with Hepatitus, where I was married in the backyard at dawn on Easter. The people I laughed and cried with, who I left to hitch hike to Colorado, and to whom I came home after the trip. They were my friends.
So, how have I stayed twenty when they are all at least sixty? Wait. I’m not twenty, am I? From inside it doesn’t feel any different, really. I mean it does – like twenty but knowing a few more things. Or a lot more things. Or maybe nothing at all, come to think of it. I hope I get to see them again sometime, maybe at the next reunion.