Inshallah

Remembering the birthdays of old boyfriends becomes less of a curse with each passing year. Every now and then the calendar turns to a page belonging to somebody it's a pleasure to recall.

Today Brett (aka the Alabama Sexpot) turns 39. I wonder how he's handling the mid-life crisis. Since he was already driving an Alfa Romeo in college, I'm not sure where one goes from there.

Last time I talked to him I was living in St. Pete. He called me up out of the blue. He was about to get married and was suffering severe cold feet. He hung up suddenly when his fiancee came home. That must have been ten years ago.

I am sure Brett is aging just as elegantly as he did everything else, with panache and elan and a wicked little twinkle in those pretty green eyes. I would want him to know that I never did finish reading Tortilla Flat but I will, someday ... just waiting for the right guy to finish reading it with.

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses ( row on row )

--John McCrae

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Do I love the songs because I miss the boys, or do I miss the boys because I love the songs?

I'm starting to forget what the boys looked like, but I still play the songs every day.

I miss the possibilities of being 20. I miss the newness. I miss the freshness of the Athens spring. I miss the cracks and swirls of an acid trip. I miss the halo around the full moon. I miss singing Bob Dylan songs on Lipscomb Bridge. I miss seeing Polanski films for the first time on the big screen.

But no, I don't think I really miss the boys themselves all that much. At least not more than any of that. There will always be boys: new boys, different boys, better boys. But there will never again be that full moon on Lipscomb Bridge in early June, 1990.