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.


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


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

Make. Mine. Lime.

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