I have a remarkable collection of amazing nieces and nephews, the products of my siblings. To the best of my knowledge I never produced a child (although the slim possibility that I did is the basis for a mystery-series-first-novel-in-progress) but have had my life immeasurably enriched by the borrowing of my siblings’ offspring. Besides sharing every day a house with a truly wonderful niece, this week I have had two late-night text-y-chats with two sort of brilliant, sort of hilarious, sort of insightful, sort of glorious and delightful nephews. Today, one of them sent me this photo:
It was taken at the birthday party for the eldest of us when she was turning 40. Now, we have all turned 40. We have all — though don’t tell any of the men I am dating, none of whom read so no possibility they’d see this — turned 50.
I don’t know what it is I am looking at … not the same thing or person as the other five. Funny, how much a picture can tell you. When I look at him — me, back then — I find him attractive. Which is odd, because I never have ever found me attractive — but looking back, I wasn’t all that bad.
I wish I’d known.
I wish I’d looked at the camera.
I wish I’d smiled.
I wish I could go back and tell him … well, no I don’t. Because if I told him, I wouldn’t be here to go back.