Page 36 - WTP VOl. XIII #2

29
Self Love
It’s not that I want to be young again—
God no. I wouldn’t wish that on my worsted- sweatered-old-man-in-sensible-shoes
self. I mean, we barely made it out alive
the first time around. But I’d like to talk to him—
that lonely, bored, back-row kid
I was back then. Because I think he would have
liked me. I mean, I think he would have liked
the way he turned out. And I know he would have liked
to ask me a million questions. Many of which
I know the answers to. I picture us sitting
on a bench in Taylor Park, one of his PF Fliers jackhammering nervously next to my sensible shoes.
He looks away. Doesn’t speak. I ask him if
there’s anything he’d like to know. He looks up at me—
from this angle he can see all my ugly nose hairs,
thick as grave-grass. I no longer even bother
to trim them. “How old are you?” he asks me
and I tell him: 62. “Do you have any kids?” Yes. Two.
“Where are they now?” One is in New York City
and one is in Hawaii. “Do you miss them?”
Yes. Very much. But I miss you even more,
if that’s possible. “Am I going to beat Marc Peo
in the wrestling tournament?” Now it’s my turn
to look away. “That’s OK,” he says, “you don’t
have to say it. I understand.” And he puts his little hand
on my shoulder. “What about Cheryl Lubecki?”
What about her? “Well, do you think she likes me?”
I think your strategy of pretending not to be interested in her isn’t working. “OK, thanks for telling me.” And he looks
away again. A long silence. The trees in the park,
which are much older than both of us, seem to chortle
in the breeze. Is there anything else you’d like to know?
He takes a minute to think. Then asks, “Are you happy?”
Oh yes, in fact (and I start to choke up a little) being here now with you, I am happier than I have ever been in my life.
Paul hoStovSkY