I will tell him tomorrow. I will pick up the phone and call his office and talk to his receptionist and say, "I have to cancel my appointment." And she will say, "When would you like to reschedule?" And I will say . . .
What will I say?
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I am on the phone with Rosemary, my best friend since second grade. I used to talk to her on the old black phone in the kitchen of the house I grew up in. And she used to talk to me on the old black phone that sat on a table to the left of her front door.
"Want to come over?"
"I'll ask my mother."
Fifty-two years. At least a million conversations. This one is hard. They've all been hard since her son, Mark, left for Iraq.
Read MoreI have it upstairs in a box somewhere, a piece of pink, lined paper filled with writing that's straight up and down. The penmanship struck me as exotic when I first saw it because it wasn't the Palmer Method. It was a combination of printing and art, the f's and g's and p's and q's big and bold and gaudy. The words the letters made were bold, too, because they held up a mirror to my life. This is who you are, the lady who penned them said.
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wasn't wrong about their leaving. My husband kept telling me I was. That it wasn't the end of the world when first one child, then another, and then the last packed her bags and left for college. But it was the end of something. "Can you pick me up, Mom?" "What's for dinner?" "What do you think?”
I was the sun, and they were the planets. And there was life on those planets, whirling, nonstop plans and parties and friends coming and going, and ideas and dreams…
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