turning 70

We had never taken a walk at midnight. But it seemed like the perfect time to go. The weather was mild- about 60 degrees Fahrenheit and you looked delicious in your black dress that hugged your curves and your smile.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

We had gotten to the cabin earlier that day. The car ride up hadn’t been exactly pleasant- we had had all the talks people always put off until they have no choice but to spend an extended period of time with each other. The radio not working didn’t help.

But, after we had settled in, when I said I was going out for a cigarette, and you suggested we should go on a walk, my heart, for lack of a better phrase, skipped a beat.

You didn’t change- you decided to keep on the same black dress from the ball we had drunkingly left when we decided to go “to the country.”

And I didn’t interject. You were, and are, beautiful.

We walked through the foliage with no light save for the moon. Hand in hand, like survivors, we walked through the overgrown forest and inbetween the trees.

I cracked a joke that I don’t remember. I can’t remember if you laughed- and that tells me enough about the quality of the joke.

Then we made it.

In the clearing we could see the pond and the moon reflecting on it, vibrating and still.

“Let’s take a dip.” You said.

We stripped and plunged.