Yesterday

... was my baby's 17th birthday.

My baby. 17. Impossible!

He was just 3 feet tall a couple of years ago, wasn't he?

Now he's close to 6 feet tall and can grow a full beard.

How did this happen?

I know. I understand the inexorable march of time and all that.

But really.

Wasn't it just a couple of years ago, that I made his devil dinosaur costume for Halloween?

The year after that was an Indian costume and the advent of the stupid barbie-like doll in the spider web on the porch. (He and his older brother borrowed it from a little girl down the street, only Barbie I ever had to buy was to replace the one they borrowed)

That march of time always seems to creep up on me. I just don't know how I got to be 48!

How the hell did I survive?

Better yet, why?

Somewhere out there, there's a reason.

And so I trudge along in the march (John Phillip Sousa playing in the background), dazed and confused. Lonely at times. Once in a while, scared.

That I'll never find that reason.
That one person.
That other half.
That someone to grow old with.
Laugh with.
Cry with.

Most times I'm apathetic about it, but once in a while...



I'm scared.