Sixty

About last night...Opossum Run provided top-notch accompaniment for the world premieres of several new songs. When one of the composers looked into my eyes as she sang, I knew I was in love with her, with good friends, with Arrowhead Lodge, and with my entry into a seventh decade.

Consider state of mind. One of the oldest guys at the party had fallen off a ladder several days earlier while repairing a wooden bridge. He was grateful for soft mud (how soft can mud be?). Minds might wonder that no one declined pot pie because of the rabbit, the gravy, or the gluten (taking a break perhaps?). Almost everyone sang (was it the sweet potato wine?). Every gift was uplifting and constructive -- a pig family portrait for the barn, small farm journals from yesteryear, carefully chosen books, a home-made stringed instrument, chocolate blueberries (no Depends or silly black humor of a 40th birthday). And why?....maybe the old cliche, because the most important day in history is today. The next is tomorrow (one of the things I like most about my best friend is she tries to teach me, by example, not to look back, even though sometimes, lying on my back in pitch darkness, I enjoy doing just that).

"Why wasn't I invited?" says Virginia.

I'm sorry about that. The table only seated ten. She drew a short straw. But she was not forgotten.