Memorializing

# 51,

but

a blog post

overly

telling,

and

excessively

revealing.

A poem,

yes,

a poem

is illusory

and

concealing.

Concealing

like

gray hair,

hidden under

highlights

and lowlights.

And skin lotions

and miracle

potions

slathered

on wrinkled

sagging skin.

There were

the dearest

of old friends,

and a spattering

of new,

and others

I no longer

imagine

sharing

a park bench

with

like

bookends.

Yes, Paul,

♪how terribly

strange to

be seventy ♪.

Missed chances

at

possible

true love

and

what-if

sliding doors.

A drive-by

this house

and that house,

and this school,

and that school,

and waiting

in a parking lot

for church bells

that never rang.

The barrel-chested

seagulls,

who screeched

and fought us

for French fries

and clam bellies

at Overton’s,

and a

disappointing

Main Street

that was

unremarkable

without

the legendary

pink house,

Sally,

and

Oscar’s,

and all the

other places

long gone

like

youth.

Some clicks

pleasantly

surprised,

while

other cliques

were still in

social play,

a reminder

that

some things

never change.

We dressed

for the 70s

at almost 70,

which wigged

some of us out.

And then came

an

apologetic

confession,

54 years

too late,

for a

jock-joining

quartet.

The

exceptionally

talented

band

concluded

with

Forever Young,

if only

it was

so.

And

in the

end,

the

goodbye hugs

were tighter

and longer,

just in case.