I look at him, trying to absorb every detailabout him, about this minute.
You see, tonight is my surprise birthdayparty. He thinks I don’t know. He’s been twisting himself intoknots for weeks trying to hide the evidence.
I’ve enjoyed every adorable moment of it.
“I’m so impressed you got theater tickets formy birthday!” I kiss him. It never hurts to play along, not whenhe’s gone to so much trouble to honor me. “Give me tenminutes!”
I climb the stairs and pad softly down thehall to our master bedroom. Earlier, I’d pulled my favoritecocktail dress out of my packed closet and noticed it lookedrumpled from being crushed against other clothes. The hour had beenfar too late to dash to the cleaners and beg for mercy, so I’dsteamed up the shower and hooked my dress over the glass door totry and freshen it up a bit.
The truth is, I don’t really didn’t care ifit isn’t crisp and perfect. What’s a wrinkle or two, anyway?
How easy it is to be cavalier when thecreases are in my clothes.
I flip on the bathroom light and positionmyself in front of the mirror. The lines in my forehead stare backat me. So do the grooves in the skin around my eyes and mouth. Myhusband says he likes them, says they are evidence of a happylife.
I make faces at my reflection. As long as I’mnot smiling or laughing, the wrinkles aren’t too noticeable, Idecide. But who chooses a life—or a week or a day—without laughtersimply to mask the passing of time?
The shoes I’d planned to wear havedisappeared. With a little time and effort, I’m certain I couldlocate them in one of my daughter’s preferred hiding places. Buttime is what I don’t have right now. I don’t even have the time toget annoyed.
The dog, likely in protest of the toy-washingincident, has licked my patchwork evening bag—a prized bargain Iunearthed years back at the outlets—from top to bottom. Not wantingto touch it, I use my toes to tuck it under the bed and out ofsight.
The jewelry I’d selected with such enthusiasmthis afternoon no longer appeals to me. I always wear the sameearrings, anyway. Gold and dangly, neither fancy nor casual. Theywere my anniversary gift from my husband the year our daughter wasborn. I still tell him he overspent, but to his satisfaction I wearthem almost every day.
“He loves you” they seem to sing out to mewhen they catch the light and shine it on my reflection in themirror. They make me happy, remind me of him.
Through the open bathroom door I hear myhusband call out my name. I toss my robe aside and pull the dressfrom its hanger. Mindful of my fresh lipstick, I carefully lower itover my head, and take satisfaction in the bright color and goodfit of the fabric.
“Cakes!” The urgency in my husband’s voiceincreases. “Cakes, we’ll be late. You look beautiful even in yourbathrobe. You always look beautiful. We need to get on the roadsoon—traffic and all that.”
Knowing this man as I do, loving him, ourchildren, our life, I suspect his main concerns are as follows: hisexcitement to surprise me—his beloved wife, the mother of hischildren—with a special evening he has personally planned; and theurgent pull of his empty stomach.
But don’t hold me to the order.
I pull the last of the Velcro rollers from mybangs, give my hair a quick brush, a few pats, and I’m ready. Myfingers pass over the light switch as I’m leaving the room.Happy birthday, I say to myself.
Wearing my fancy dress, my not so fancyearrings, my wrong color shoes, and my everyday purse slung acrossmy shoulders, I step out into the hall looking much the way Ialways do: quality, well-made pieces that weren’t put together inquite the right way.
Me. In a nutshell.
At the top of the stairs, I stop and listento the sounds of my world floating up from below. These are my realgifts, my liquid gold.
I hear them with my heart. I store them in mysoul.
I think of the memories we’ve made together,of the memories yet to come.
And I am no longer afraid of the yearsalready gone by.
All that I have now, at this very moment,will again be mine. Yes, a long time from now—when I am an old, oldwoman—my life will be returned to me, to hold, to savor, to loveagain.
