Jello Day

It’s happened.

I’m 68, my son’s 29, and it’s happened.

And I’m a Goner.

You’ve been here: there have been days I’ve told him inconsequential stuff more than once.

Usually he’s tolerant. On occasion a subtle eye-roll accompanied by an affectionate smile. Sometimes when I’ve shared the same stuff twice in a morning, eye-roll is followed by a sober, thudding…”Dad”.

As if to say: “What were you (not) thinking?”

My son’s a very fine young man, decent, kind.

Yet  Life’s Tripwires come without herald and there’s no step back.

I found a former friend and close colleague whom I’d let disappear from my life over a decade back.

 

My exuberance in having found my friend had me telling my son about it not two times in a morning but three.

In
half
an
hour.

Without having recalled at all that I’d shared the news.

Goner.

He said, “Dad. The happiest day in The Home will be Jello Day.”

Make. Mine. Lime.

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