Old Men and Body Stones

Darling, as we enter the final fifth of our time here on earth, I find myself finding you, a stymied nerd, stubborn and narrow minded. You are the crack under the locked door. A lump and a fart, needing to be right, even when wrong, and always a reason for being late or for anything you do That irritates me…like messy mail and scattered tools. But last Saturday night, following the birth of our first Grandchild, Anna, I sat and witnessed your momentary rebirth, there in Crete’s Pizza hut. You, retired and adjusting, I watched your face come alive. Leaning in towards me, your eyes a twinkle with imp and sparkle, you said, “I detest those stones they wear on the face, the nose, the lip, the cheek, the nostril… even the nipple. “Really?” I said, incredulous, wondering if babies nursed stones and choked, or if a jeweled mothers sat in sands, in faraway lands, gracious and glittering, offering milk from a smooth opal or ruby or jade. Then with the eagerness of a boy, you asked, “What would happen if I went up to a girl and said, “You know I think you’re very pretty, but I think you’d be a lot prettier without that stone?” You were so excited about your idea, the solution to the new generation. ’ Good Gracious,’ I replied, imagining the girl‘s cool glance, her thinking, ‘weird…get away from me you old man. I said, “Don’t you dare,” wondering, how many years of this with you?’ Then I fell apart laughing from the depth of my heart. Growing old really isn’t so bad. I looked into your blue eyes and saw, Walter Mattheau, a wonderful silly old man, and found myself falling in love all over again.