My parents are holding hands in the car on the way home and it’s beautiful. They don’t always get along, but it’s eleven o’clock on a August Sunday and my father turned sixty today. And I think my mother understands tonight that he is coming to the realization that he is closer to sixty than sixteen, and he is wondering how he got here. But somehow their fingers threaded together and the cool pavement after the rain is enough tonight.
And tonight is sad, but it is also good. You’re miles away, but you love me, but one day it will be late on a quiet day, and I’ll weave my hand through yours while you drive and the mere outline of your frame in the cool starlight will be captivating, and I’ll smile and I wonder how I got here, and wonder how I got to be with you. We are closer to sixteen than twenty-six, but I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of holding your hand.
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