I’m looking
at an old calendar from 1970 and see that it lines up with this year precisely
– in other words, it’s going to be July 3rd and we’re preparing for
the first Friday night campfire of the season, fifty years ago, right about
now.
Fifty years
ago – five decades past - half a century – okay, now I do feel old.
It’s moments
like this that I wish that I had a time machine so that I could find seventeen-
year-old me that night, grab him firmly by the shoulders, and tell him to pay
closer attention to all that was happening.
“You’re
going to want to remember more of this night, this summer, these friends, these
memories,” old me would say to young me.
But being
young, young me would probably pay old me little heed.
“I’ve got a
song to lead, old man, so leave me be. Anyway, how am I ever going to forget
any of this?”
“Give it
fifty years, kid.”
And so I wander
to the top row of those uncomfortable logs, set my old butt down, and wait for
a song from that boy. I have no idea
what he’s going to sing, as we’ve forgotten.
After all, it’s been fifty years.
“Don’t say,
I didn’t tell you so,” I mutter.
I just hope
we’re in tune.
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