 If I’d told my teenage self that she would one day be married to a 60-year-old man, she would have grimaced, horrified. Naïve thing, she was. Too young to understand that the 18-year-old boy she met in college, with the big biceps, thick hair, and effortless athleticism, would turn into a 60-year-old man, tempered into thoughtful contemplations, able to sit for hours creating beautiful designs on the shell of an egg with a hot wax tool. The beauty of age, of mellowed quietness, of roots grown so deeply intertwined that they promise to support an expanding forest of family future – these things would never have occurred to her at the time. It’s probably just as well not to know when you’re young. I don’t think I had the capacity to hold such a weighty treasure, and might have dropped it. I’m stronger now. Happy birthday, my love. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 177: 147 words, TOTAL = 29,012; 30,988 remaining |
AuthorRobin Clifford Wood is a writer and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband and dogs, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her grown children and their multi-species families. Archives
January 2021
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