By Katrina Vandenberg
When I think of what it means not to marry
the high school sweetheart, but to find each other
as we did at ages thirty and forty, I think
of John and I singing along to an old cassette
of Jackson Browne on car trips, and how, as we sing,
a part of me is hearing the song for the first time
in Detroit, on WRIF with my first boyfriend
in his truck as he took curves, shifting hard and fast.
And probably John is making love with a black-haired girl
in the carpeted back of his van in 1979, out west,
the cassette new and popular, draining the battery.
How unlikely that we ended up traveling together
singing a song we each learned with someone else.
Neither of us minds that, the way we might have then.
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Thursday arrived with the nicest weather we've had in weeks -- barely 80 degrees, low humidity, some high fluffy clouds -- so I didn't mind that I had to do various chores like exchange the king-size pillow covers I accidentally bought Wednesday instead of full-size pillow covers and get shampoo and conditioner. Then I got to take a walk, where I saw happily munching bunnies right near my house and an entire family of deer in the woods:
Adam is going on an orientation kayaking trip with other University of Maryland honors students for the weekend, including a high school friend, so on Thursday he got together with a group to hang out (they had planned to make a movie together but I'm not sure if that happened). We had bean enchiladas for dinner, after which Adam went to pack and Paul and I watched Endeavour...I suppose we should watch some Inspector Morse now!
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