Memories

I hear that frespa in Gilbert had a really busy day on Saturday.  That pleases me no end.  Except that I hadn't made my appointment, and therefore couldn't get squeezed in.  As a result, I spent Father's Day un-manicured.  So, who noticed?

A young man stopped to see me Sunday.  Well, he still seems young to me, though he's in the latter half of his fifties.  He was a close friend of my middle son, became a lawyer, married and had four kids, and I hadn't seen him for years and years.  He still calls me "Mom" and has hardly changed a bit -- unless you call having a salt and pepper beard a change.  Ron even looks slightly like my son, though Paul's beard is almost as snow-white as Santa's.  

Ron was almost like another son. At some time or other I must have told him to make himself at home, because he did. I remember being busy folding laundry in a back bedroom when I heard the front door open and close.  I listened quietly. For some stupid reason or other, I didn’t call out, but waited for a clue to guess which child it was.

I heard the refrigerator door open and close, a cupboard door bang shut and liquid (I presumed milk) gurgle into a glass.  The toaster clicked down, and I smelled bread warming.  A drawer squeaked slightly, chair legs scraped over tile, and I heard a knife spreading butter.  While I was debating about going into the kitchen or just waiting to see what would happen next, the tap ran water, the dishwasher door closed, and the front door as well.   Ah haw.  The dishwasher clicking shut was my big clue that it wasn’t one of my kids.  It had to be Ron.

Ah, memories.  They’re what make life worth living.  Great in the making, they’re even more so in retrospect.