The more we mature, the smaller the age-gap becomes.
What’s six or seven or twelve or eleven years? A wrinkle
in time, like the laughter lines we will exchange
for the furrows three lifetimes have carved on our countenance.
We went to each other’s weddings, the graduations,
children’s baptisms, nuptials, our parents’ obsequies,
one for a husband. Food and drink and more food
and much laughter. The craic was good, the songs were raucous,
the jokes were bellyache-making, the welcome was wide.
‘Remember when?’ ‘Oh, aye!’ ‘Were you not there?’
‘I wasn’t bloody born, ya big buck-eejit!’ ‘Right enough!’
‘Oh, here we go!’ Someone drags out photos.
Groans and moans at sixties fashion, seventies faux-pas,
eighties hairstyle horrors, curly perms. You ironed your hair
between sheets of brown paper when Julie Covington
sang of Wheels of Fire. A fiery maiden before that
when the coal fire caught your locks and made me scream.
You brushed it off. ‘I thought my head was warm!’
I’d steal your Mills and Boone, your Dennis Wheatley,
The eldest taught the elders about wine, and brought
the Tears of Christ from Roman holiday for us to wonder.
She was enlightened, so I learned of yoghurt, capsicum,
Blend 37, fenugreek and words like ‘pseudonym,’
‘exacerbate,’ ‘debilitate’ and ‘Quattro Stagione.’
We each have had our sorrows, stresses, niggles, pains,
perturbances and plights. Long-overdue carousing
must be on the cards! Let’s find a window, synchronise
our schedules, plan a get-together some time soon
before it’s late, and we are later, and our time is past.
First published in Star Tips for Writers