Last year, just before A and B moved south, I took A on a date.
He was five years old.
He was that perfect age where he was a wonderful companion, silly conversationalist, and not embarrassed to hold my hand everywhere we went and to look up at me with eyes that said I had just hung the moon.
We went to the movie theater and saw “Hotel for Dogs” and then we went to a 1950s era ice cream parlor and shared a milkshake. You know the cliche-one glass, two straws, true love.
We also put dimes in the old fashioned jukebox. I selected a particular song and waited for it to play. We sat and spooned heapfuls of chocolate ice cream out of a tall frosty glass and waited for the song to play. Every song that started, Adam would ask, “is this our song, Aunt E?” I don’t know how many dimes went into that jukebox before our dime dropped but there certainly must have been a lot. We waited and waited and chatted and giggled and eventually gave up and left the ice cream parlor, on to other adventures. Our song never did play that day.
It has been at least a year and this afternoon I finally heard that song for the first time since we tried to play it so many months ago.
I was instantly taken back to that ice cream parlor. Chocolate gooey-ness, mini-sized white napkins out of a silver dispenser: it was a fine day.
So today, I had to write and tell him: