As usual, our conversation started off with the weather. “The snow and the cold. I just don’t like it anymore,” Maga said.
“Me neither.”
“Think it’s because we’re getting older?”
“Possibly.”
“The snow. It just gets in your way. It’s awkward. Maybe I should move to Florida.”
“But it’s supposed to be nice this weekend for your birthday. Are you excited?”
“I am I guess. I’m not too happy about how old I’m getting though.”
“It’s quite an accomplishment.”
“If you say so.”
“What was one of your favorite years? Like, how old were you?”
“In my life?”
“Yes.”
“Oh golly day.” The phone line crackled with her thought process. “Well, I’d have to say the year I was at Wellesley when I met Jobo. He was a special man, as you know.”
“I do know.”
She shifted back to the weather. A safer, more controllable topic. I indulged her for some time, but I couldn’t help but express my enthusiasm one last time before we hung up.
“I’m really excited to see you this weekend,” I said.
“I’m going to have to buy more film.”
“Yes, there will be plenty of opportunities for pictures.”
“And that way I’ll have something to look at and remember once you’re all gone. But before that, I’ll be counting down the days and hours and minutes until you get here.”
Me too, Maga. Me too.
Abigail Mumford 