My husband’s forty-seventh birthday was today. We went to dinner and a movie. And my daughter wrapped him gifts: one purchased and three regifted from her room. (She chose a children’s Bible, a football and I can’t remember the last.) She likes to wrap gifts and uses the big scissors and wrapping paper and a roll of tape for each gift-wrapping session. Really, a whole roll of tape. I love her enthusiasm.
What’s weird about getting older and being married to someone who is also getting older is . . . well, getting older. My dad died three weeks after he turned forty-seven. My husband just turned forty-seven. It’s just so weird that my dad died when he was so young . . . and so weird that my husband is now the age that my dad was when he died. My dad seemed so . . . grown-up and dad-like when he was 47, so many miles and miles and miles ahead of us.
And now we’re there, sort of. We’re getting old. At least my husband is: I’m four years younger than him.
Anyway, I am so glad my husband was born, so glad I married him almost 21 years ago and so glad that he’s not going to die in three weeks.