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I just changed, aged, got older, however you want to put it. Isnât that how every story should begin? Even if the suckerâs in present tense, it got written and revised after what really happenedâor was imagined to happenâhopelessly entangledâactually happened. Our present past is a reinvention, a reimagining of the facts. Thatâs not just old age. The boundaryâs always been more than a little slippery. Still. The story youâre about to hear changed your narrator. Isnât that the very definition of getting olderâchange? Of a story, for that matter. We change until we die and become other peopleâs memories, and of course they change too. Might as well get over yourself now. Once youâre dead, other people get to decide who you are. Why let them get started on that now?
Getting older doesnât just glide along, however, smooth and easy at a steady pace. Itâs like a clogged-up little creek for many years, quiet and tranquil, same old trickle downstream, but when the hard rains come, then watch out, because then everything changes all at once, and washes your little world away.
Donât mean to sound grim. Itâs just the way it is. Iâm the happiest, luckiest, happy-go-luckiest guy I know. Everything is perfect. Everything, as it always does, is happening now:
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Katyana and I are sleeping in, or trying to. Weâre both early risers and would rather be up and out enjoying what looks to be, through the window, a beautiful day. We can hear Dylan in the kitchen laboring furiously to make us breakfast in bed before we have the bad taste to get out of it, so naturally we stay, trade nostalgic memories about him, about us. Itâs our anniversary. What started out as a marriage of convenience, I believe itâs called, has turned out to be quite wonderful for all three of us. Dylanâs twelve. Iâm seventy-nine. Thatâs coming up on 2.5 billion seconds. Time flies when youâre having a good time. Katyanaâs lived a mere 1.4 billion seconds or so, but sheâs wise beyond her moments. Weâre holding hands. We do that a lot. Mine are leathery and old, a rainbow of liver spots arcing from pinkie to thumb, hers tattooed and still graceful looking like a beautiful tropical bird.
We squeeze and release when we hear Dylan trudging up the stairs, freeing our hands to make a fuss. He totters in with a huge tray heaped with food. Anticipating this, Katyana and I have cleared a space for a landing on top of the dresser, usually covered in random crap and piles of change. Weâre not the tidiest couple, but weâre happy. He sets down the heavy tray with a cringe-making clatter, and we shriek with delight for the feast our wonderful son lays before us, applaud his presentation, the aromas, his thoughtfulness.
He serves us a spicy tofu scramble with lime-cilantro-mango salsa and fresh tortillas, zucchini muffins, grapefruit slices, and lots of hot coffeeâthis is my kid weâre talking about. Heâs the best cook in the house, twelve-year-old earnest. The food radiates love. We dig in. Iâm snufflyâfrom the salsa, or from the moment, I canât sayâbut everything is perfect.
When people say I love God , this is how they feel.
Then Katyanaâs phone bleats, and she says she has to take it, leaps out of bed and takes the call in the master bath.
Dylanâs as surprised as I am. Whatâs so important to interrupt our good time? Weâre a spoiled pair. She likes to spoil usâthatâs our story anyway. We listen intently. The bathroom amplifies everything but muddies it up too. Itâs her excited voice, but restrained a little. Sheâs speaking up even though sheâs standing in the bathroom staring into the shower. A lotâs riding on this call. We can tell that much. Dylan and I trade a look. Neither of us has a clue. You canât make out
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