The march of our lives. Always questions
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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.
        Later, 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.”
        As 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 think, huh?”
        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?”
        As the 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?”
        The 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?”
        Those 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.
        Where 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 as gold.
        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?”
        Always the questions. Interesting how they mirror the marching of our lives