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"Growing old gracefully," he thinks, "seems a reasonable goal. Accepting changes. The graying of one's hair. Foregoing the excesses and late night adventures better left to the young."
He ponders the years - the roads taken and those left unexplored. He remembers earlier years, where his thoughts and words flew faster and light as hummingbirds, friendships were pollinated with chicken wings, and foosballs echoed like woodpeckers through the night. Beer yielded to wine – the amber nectar set aside for that sweet juice, as red and enticing as a toreador's cape.
As a midweek's sun sets, he thinks of those who moved north to gentle suburbs and polar woodlands, and west to the beaches and rainforests of the far coast. But the seeds they planted grow thick and span farther afield with the seasons.
"A brief respite from the day's toil has been earned," he considers. "Best not to dwell on what has passed with the crisp autumn breeze, but revel in the promise of spring that even a bleak January evening begets – it will get warmer and, in time, warmer still." He looks at his watch and thinks, "It is late and tomorrow there is much to do."
He raises his hand to attract her attention. She turns, and he speaks gently, "I think I have time for one more tonight."
My birthday is coming up this week. No, not that birthday. The one before that. I considered changing locations this year, but change is scary (and my plan B is too small and isn't fully open yet.) Come out for a drink and/or a bite to eat and a guaranteeed great group of people.
A rapidly graying,
Petro
(Apologies to the estate of Ernest Hemingway for ripping off Papa poorly.)