My birthday was a month ago, but sixty? Not me. Younger than myself feels truer than the six tens of years that the numbers call me. But today, I am feeling ten, six times over. And more. Sixty is heavy with experience. Weighted with life. Like pile of rocks with each stone an added event, a thing that happens, placing another stone on the pile, heaped into the hourglass of years to roll downward eventually piled with the others, ten twenty..all the way closer to one hundred than zero. No doubt about it. Sixty years sifts by, spills out and rumbles its way through tearing the connective tissue. I see sixty in the mirror. Damn wrinkles, damn gravity, damn kids.
Liza and Ann came home today, daddy went to work and you went back to the tent. You didn’t want to go. Everyone is full of salt. Everyone of us needs a nap, a bowl of hot soup and a vacation. But this is the beginning. Talking adults starts you humming loudly, kicking the floor, creating a distraction. So we stop, but we’ll never finish. I’m coughing up a golf ball each time I talk to your mommy. Don’t want to make her run. I have to be careful. Approach her by connecting with her and solving a mutual problem. Daddy is confused. And leaves the room regularly. Your mom too. She needs to sleep before anymore thinking. Liza waves bye the happiest one here like a prom queen wave, twist and rotate the hand. Kisses, buddy. We’ll tackle more tomorrow. Tomorrow I may be seventy. Or maybe tomorrow mommy will grow up. Maybe daddy will grow up. But probably not. Probably not.