It’s a simple coffee mug with an inset of a photograph taken long ago. A memorabilia from our first trip to Saratoga Springs. He wore white shirt with blue trim. I wore a blue hat with a wide brim. Bright eyes, grin as broad as the brim. Young. Not too young. Younger than today. Before blotchy skin. Before grays and wrinkles. Before flabby arms. Yet, we didn’t exchange vows until grays and wrinkles set in. Our love survived turbulence. Today, grins flash less and clouds dim eyes. We are as happy as that first weekend we watched the races together.
The mirror reflects a flattering picture, but on this day, my birthday, my feet drag. Shoulders droop. Makeup refuses to adhere.
I am here but not here.
I wish to lie beneath the maple tree. Bask in its shade. Listen to rustling leaves.
I wish to feel grass grow under my feet. Caress smooth blades. Bathe in morning dew.
I wish to hear ants march. Witness their strength. Smell their treasured goods.
One day. Someday, when my senses are shut, I will coexist with the ground.
Will my spirit revel in the bounties of my final resting place?
A sea of blues blanketed Times Square. Turquoise, navy, denim, periwinkle, sapphire, powder, azure, just to name a few. I fell out of step with most commuters in my black and white outfit. For a minute, I felt like the odd man out who forgot to tune into WBLS. Every morning I woke to the smooth jive of Frankie Crocker. His morning chatter included weather, celebrity gossip, and horoscope tidbits. More importantly, he announced the color of the day. Then and only then I’d get up, ensuring my attire reflected Crocker’s all important choice. That was our high school solidarity.