He is 35. I, 59.
It was three years ago to the day yesterday when we first met as adults. 2014. He was 32; I 56.
The place: a cafe in downtown Reno, Nevada. A midpoint between his home in California and mine in … actually, I was living nowhere at the time. I was on the road without a home, save for my beloved Subaru, searching for a place to land across various state lines.
I was trying to make it happen in Utah, Nevada’s neighbor. Didn’t pan out. Later, time revealed, the right place was Arizona. But I get ahead of myself.
So Reno was the convenient midpoint.
A magnificent story, that first meeting as adults. Of course it wasn’t our first meeting ever. That is one that I remember, vividly; he does not, could not. He was an infant; I was 24.
That’s all I feel like telling at the moment.
Plus certain stories need to be revealed in novels, magazines, in a space in a published series. This blog is none of those.
Yesterday was cloudy, gloomy, cold, damp, rainy. A day more typical of the Pacific Northwest (Seattle/Tacoma) than Arizona.
The bleak day only contributed to my state of mind connected specifically to mothers and Mother’s Day.
Then the sun broke through, literally and figuratively. There arrived an email from Peter, he who is 35 and my son, wishing happy mother’s day. And would I like to talk on the phone because he really would!
It is the first time we’ve ever talked on the phone — in 35 years. And only the second time we’ve talked since that memorable meeting in Reno. May 8, 2013. Exactly three years ago to the day, a happenstance since Mother’s Day was a week early this year.
And there it is in a nutshell: