The march of our lives. Always questions
written by Ron:
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When I was a kid, six or seven years old I would ask about my friends. “Can Jimmy come
out and play, huh, can he?” Simple question. It asked for a simple yes or no response.
about in my twelfth year, my questions would become a bit more complex. “Hey, Jimmy, have you done your chores, let’s get going, get
your bike, we’ll go down to the park and ride around. You ready? C’mon, let’s go.”
the effects of puberty rattled around in my young and tender bones the questions I asked became more multifaceted. “Do you know if
Charlene has a date for the prom? Have you heard anything about if she’s going? Do you think she’d go if I asked her? What do you
As the bloom of pubescence faded, replaced by the earthy nature of naïve
unripe adulthood, I would ask, “So, Margaret, do you have any thoughts about going to Las Vegas? We could stay at a nice hotel. Just
two nights. See a couple of shows. Would you like to go? What do you think?”
years rolled on the questions began to require compound answers. “Honey, would you and the kids like to go to the mountains this weekend?
We could leave Friday afternoon. We could rent the same cabin you and I rented before we got married. The kids would have a good time.
Do you wanna go? It would be fun, don’t you think?”
The flecks of gray had interloped
amongst the brown hairs. The questions had gained a maturity. “Do you really want to go to that party next week? It’s a long drive,
about an hour and you know how the traffic is on the freeway. We’ve never been close to them, I don’t even know why we’re invited.
Are you sure you want to go? We wouldn’t get home until around midnight. Do you still want to go?”
gray hairs had won the battle of the scalp. More years on the odometer. The questions remained. Always questions, “The kids want us
to meet them up at the cabin in the mountains. They’re all going to be there. Do you really want to go or would you rather stay home.
We could get a couple of movies and relax right here. Just you and me. If you want to go that’s okay with me, but, well, anyway, it’s
up to you. Whatever you think.”
Y’know, I haven’t heard from Stan in a while. Maybe
I should call him. Think that would be okay? I miss old Stan. Just think we went to grammar school together and we’ve been friends
ever since. That was some time ago, wasn’t it. Should we have Stan and his wife over for dinner?”
days of calling friends to see if they could come out and play stirred distant memories. Bike riding in the park. Exciting and seductive
trips to Las Vegas. Mountain cabins. All fading recollections.
But questions, always
questions remained. They changed with the passing years, but always the questions.
were those old grammar school and high school friends? The ones I used to ask if they could come out and play. The ones that we dated
and took to dances. The ones who remembered us as we remembered them. The ones who we saw once a year and treasured that get together
And now the questions remain, altered somewhat. “Hi Stan. How are you? Been
feeling good? Sorry about your wife. I’ve been thinking about you. Have you heard from the other guys, you know Arnold, Steve, Barry
and the rest? I haven’t heard from Larry, is he still, you know, with us?”
questions. Interesting how they mirror the marching of our lives