The picture was taken at the Beaux Art Ball.
I was just past 19 years and full of the power of youth.
Look at us standing, in the costumes that we chose.
Me, in elbow length, white, kid leather gloves from the Salvation Army, and a dress I made from fabric of my own design.
See that my hem is loose, the stitches torn from dancing.
Look at me, standing with my hand on my hip as if I was independent.
Look at you, in your Goodwill suit, your Grandfather’s tie and Converse high tops.
Your arm is around my neck and there is a fierce look in your grey eyes.
This was where we realized that we were in love.
It was also the night that my roommate was in the way, but he would not go home.
There was a message waiting when I got home the other day.
A link of the web, a familiar name, it was my college roommate.
“28 years is long enough,” the note read, “I thought it was time to say hello.”
I told Jeff about the note.
“It said; ‘He is a lucky man’.” I told him.
Jeff can’t do an arched eyebrow but he tried. He managed an ironic “Do tell” sort of look.
28 years together and I know what he is thinking.
Luck had a walk on part.
Here is another middle-aged crisis thinking the grass is greener or could have been greener.
Who we were, briefly, at the prime of youth, has now aged in complicated ways.
You need 9 lives to get through 28 years.
“My son has gone off to College,” the note said, “So my thoughts are turning back to those more carefree days.”
I was not carefree then. I was anxious.
Luck plays a role in all facets of life.
But this little drama was set in motion by a flaming cupid’s arrow.
It was love.
But it was also our choice.