Tag: love

The Looking Glass House

April 11th, 2026

“Oh, Kitty, how nice it would be if we could only get through into Looking-glass House! I’m sure it’s got, oh! such beautiful things in it! Let’s pretend there is a way of getting through into it, somehow, Kitty. Let’s pretend that the glass has got all soft like gauze so that we can get through. Why it’s turning into a sort of mist now, I declare! It will be easy enough to get through—-“

The quotation above is an excerpt of Alice speaking to her cat in the first chapter of Through the Looking-Glass by Lewis Carroll

I sat in the Nikiya Harris-Dodd Visitation Center, which is part of the Community Reintegration Center (CRC) in Franklin, Wisconsin. The CRC is a jail, and all jails have the same depressing vibe. It’s part of their essence. As far as jails go, the CRC is not that bad, but it is still intimidating. The visitation center is clean and neat and utterly uninviting. When I checked in at the counter for my scheduled visit, I had to show the guard my photo ID, which she kept and explained that I would get it back upon my departure from the facility. I was there early because I didn’t know how busy the place would be, seeing as visits to the “residents” can only happen on the weekend. I had an appointment to see the young woman at 9:15 AM. The waiting area was almost empty, which was a good thing since there are only six chairs available. The walls are painted a dull bureaucratic grey color. There are two vending machines containing overpriced snacks and beverages. There is also one vending machine tucked in the corner of the hall that dispenses Narcan for opioid overdoses, Deterra bags for safe deactivation and disposal of drugs, and fentanyl detection strips. Everything in that machine is free of charge.

The little boy sat near me in a chair with his legs folded underneath him. The young man had never been in a jail before. It was his first time visiting his mama while she was locked up. He was excited about seeing his mama, but he really didn’t like his environment. He and I waited for the guard to call us through the security check.

A Black family walked into the lobby. There was a very elderly woman, a middle-aged lady, and a small child. They checked in with the guard and handed over their IDs. The middle-aged woman asked about getting a locker. This confused the guard. The woman explained that they had to put all their belongings into a locker at a different facility when they visited their incarcerated family member. The guard said they didn’t need one at his jail. They could take their purses and keys with them. I wasn’t surprised that they didn’t know the rules for visitations at the CRC. Every jail and prison is its own little kingdom, and each one has slightly different regulations. A visitor really can’t know what the rules are until they actually get there.

I talked with the family after they sat down near the boy and me. Their little guy was two years old. I told the great grandma that my boy was five. Their two-year-old was there to visit his mama, just like my boy was. The two women were raising that toddler just like my wife and I are raising our boy. Our families are in very similar situations. We are all just doing what has to be done to care for the children.

My little guy and I finally went through security and entered a big room with several long, narrow hallways, each of which had many windows. None of the windows looked outside the building. They all looked into another hallway where the inmates were. The boy and I were assigned to window 51. We sat on a stool apparently molded from concrete. There was an old school telephone receiver attached to a cable. The receiver was made of some kind of dense plastic and heavy enough to be used as a bludgeon. My boy did not want to hold the phone, so I held it for him.

His mama was extremely excited to see her son. She wanted to know everything he had been doing. The boy was reluctant to speak with her. He sat on my lap so that he could see her better through the window. His mama kept joking with him. She kept saying how much she loved him. The boy did not like talking on the phone and he did not like the glass that separated him from his mama.

At one point, he reached out and touched the window with his index finger. His mama did the same, and their fingers almost met. Almost. Almost wasn’t quite good enough. It never is.

“Let’s pretend that the glass has got all soft like gauze so that we can get through.” Alice said that. It worked for Alice, but this boy couldn’t get through the glass into this particular Looking Glass House. And his mama couldn’t get out. It’s probably better that he didn’t go inside.

We left after twenty minutes. The boy doesn’t want to go back. I don’t blame him. Maybe he will change his mind. I hope so for his mother’s sake.

Going Downhill

April 2nd, 2026

I’m old enough to have had friends and family members die from chronic debilitating diseases. A sudden death is traumatic. I know this because one of my younger brothers died in a car wreck at the age of twenty-eight. But a slow death, one in which there is a gradual disintegration of mind or body, is agonizing. It’s like watching a slow-motion train wreck. The progress of the disease seems to be inexorable, and human efforts to stop or even to slow it down are often futile.

My mom died from Alzheimer’s disease. I have close friend whose father is suffering from the same tragic ailment. My friend’s father used to be a brilliant mathematician. Now he’s not. Now the man has great difficulty with walking up stairs and performing a number of other everyday tasks. The father, oddly enough, can still improvise music on the piano, but his other mental faculties are slipping away. My friend tells me that sometimes his dad is okay, meaning that his father hasn’t gotten any worse. The disease plateaus for a while and then continues on its negative path. There is not a smooth downward trajectory. The disease attacks the brain in fits and starts, but the overall direction is always clear.

I had two friends from work, both of whom died from cancer. One of them suffered from a type of blood cancer. The other had a brain tumor. Both of them received treatments, chemical and/or radiological. Each of them rallied for a while. I remember in visits with each of the two men how their wives would light up at any good news. The wives encouraged their partners and told them that they were getting better and it would be okay. My two friends did get better, but that was only a brief interlude, and eventually they both succumbed.

I had another brother who died from complications of alcoholism. Officially, he died of a heart attack, but it was more than that. He didn’t take care of himself, and I don’t think he wanted to live. His mental and physical decline were in many ways similar to that of somebody with Alzheimer’s. My brother would have a severe medical crisis, then he would recover, but he never quite recovered to the previous level of health. He always dropped down a step. I, along with many other people, hoped that he would turn things around one day. Other folks with addictions have been able to do that. My brother didn’t.

I sometimes speak of watching somebody else slowly die. I don’t think anybody actually just “watches” somebody whom they love die. To me, it is impossible to simply observe the destruction of someone else in a disinterested way. It’s not like going to see a Greek tragedy in a theater or binge watching a slasher movie on Netflix. The person who cares about the individual who is desperately ill is not just a spectator. That person is also a participant in the drama.

I am currently a participant in the struggle of a young person who seems to have the same disease as my brother. I love the person and I cannot separate myself from their suffering. I hope for their recovery, but I often feel completely helpless. I know I cannot save the individual.

So, what is left? There is hope. It is perhaps a forlorn and irrational hope, but it’s all I have. I cling to that hope despite all evidence that it is pointless.

That’s what I do.

A Backhanded Blessing

March 25th, 2026

She’s in jail. A person who I care about very much was incarcerated two days ago. It sucks. It’s really hard to give that event a positive spin. The person is looking at more than just jail time. They are staring at potentially years of prison. In many ways it’s a grim future.

On the other hand, it could be worse. I guess things can always be worse. The person is an addict. Their drug of choice is alcohol, although I am not sure that the word “choice” is accurate or appropriate. I think that for this individual the ability to exercise free will is much diminished. They aren’t in control of their habit. It is in control of them.

For weeks now, actually for years already, I have agonized about what this person would do next. My wife and I have lived in fear, a fear that this young woman would die. The person we love was unstable and sick, and with her anything was possible. We never knew what would happen. As I was told once, “The pattern is that there is no pattern”. That is the truth. There has been nearly constant chaos for as long as I can remember.

Now this person is in a location with structure and routine. She is relatively safe, well, as safe as person can be in a jail. Jails can be scary places. I spent just a few hours in a jail, and I remember quite clearly moments of raw fear. The only advantages of her being in a jail are that she probably cannot harm herself or others. Jail is not a good answer to her problems, but it is the only answer currently available.

The truth is that since this person was incarcerated, I have been breathing a sigh of relief. I am not as scared as I was just a few days ago. That does not mean that all is well. It isn’t. This turn of events brings new challenges for the young person and for everyone who cares about her. We’ll get through it together, but it will be hard. I look at the bottom line in this situation: she is still alive. Everything else is secondary to that.

It bothers me that in our society the best we can usually do for a person with mental health issues is to lock them up. We have a decades-long War on Drugs that has never had any real successes. Our country frequently blows up boats that may or may not be bringing drugs into the U.S., but we don’t make nearly the same amount of effort to understand addiction and its treatment. We only care about people with mental health problems when they inconvenience or endanger us. If a person decides to use a drug to quietly commit a slow-motion suicide, we are okay with it. We don’t care about the harm that addiction causes because we don’t care about the common good. We only give a damn when it hits home, and hits hard.

I prayed, and still pray, every night for the person I love. I prayed that she would survive. God answers prayers, but often in odd ways. Sending this person to jail is a backhanded blessing, but I’ll take it.

Making it Work

January 24th, 2026

I visited my friend from the synagogue a couple days ago. We did what we always do: sit around, drink a beer or two, and commiserate. It is a cheap form of therapy, and it works. We try to meet for a session once a week if we can.

One of the topics in our discussion was my friend’s upcoming fortieth wedding anniversary. He was wondering out loud what to do to celebrate the occasion with his wife. Forty years together is not as big a deal as fifty, but it is still a major milestone, and it should be recognized as such. My wife, Karin, and I had our fortieth in August of 2024. I told my friend,

“Karin wanted us to get a blessing from our priest during Mass, so we did that.”

My friend thought that was absolutely hilarious. He was imagining an Orthodox rabbi he knew marrying him and his wife in a Jewish ceremony and he burst out laughing. As a note, his wife is not Jewish and has no intention of ever becoming Jewish. I can see how my example of how to commemorate a wedding would seem absurd.

However, my point in mentioning the blessing in church wasn’t really about celebrating the anniversary in a religious way. It was about celebrating the event in a communal way. Yes, Karin and I wanted the priest to pray over us, but we also wanted a public display. We wanted other people who knew us to share our joy (and surprise) at making it for forty years as a couple.

I could write a long essay on how to make a marriage (or any other type of relationship) work, but I would be talking out my ass. Honestly, I have no idea how Karin and I made it four decades. Our struggles were numerous and sometimes overwhelming. My words and actions often made it more difficult for us to stay together. Yet, somehow, here we are, still married after nearly forty-two years. It’s amazing.

I want to go back to the communal aspect of a relationship. For those who are film buffs, you might remember a scene from The Godfather where the young Michael Corleone marries his Sicilian bride in her home village. In the movie the couple has a wedding procession through the little town and are surrounded by boisterous well-wishers. I mention this because Karin and I had a similar experience on our wedding day.

We were married in a small centuries-old chapel in her hometown of Edelfingen in Germany. We walked at the front of a procession through Karin’s village from her parent’s home to the church. Friends and neighbors cheered for us. I had my pockets full of candy and pfennigs to toss to the little kids lining the Strasse. It was a communal event.

Why were the people shouting and waving? Well, Edelfingen was a sleepy little community, and our procession was a show, like having the circus come to town. On a deeper level, I really believe that the people gathered there cared about us. The unspoken message was, “What you are doing is important. It matters to us. You matter to us.”

American culture considers marriages and other intimate relationships to be private affairs that are nobody else’s business. To an extent that is true, however, to make a relationship work in the long term, outside support is needed. A couple usually cannot do it on their own. Other cultures make it clear that the health of a marriage has a powerful impact on the entire community. We have lost that sense of being part of a larger whole. In America it’s raw individualism with little thought for anybody else, and we are poorer for that.

Flying and Letting Go

January 4th, 2026

I sometimes dream about flying. I guess a lot of people do that. I have heard that it is a common type of dream. It might be a different situation in my case in that there was a time when I actually did fly. I was an U.S. Army aviator back in the day. For five years I flew helicopters, initially Hueys (think of the movie Apocalypse Now) and later Black Hawks (the film Black Hawk Down comes to mind). I was never in combat, but I flew. It was often fun, and occasionally terrifying. I stopped being a pilot back in August of 1986. That was a long time ago, but apparently that role is still part of my life, or at least of my history.

My flying dreams are usually frustrating. I never actually get to fly. I am always preparing for a flight, sometimes on the verge of takeoff, but I never quite get into the air. Apparently, the problem is that the current version of myself is trying to be who I was forty years ago. In my dream I have a long beard, which I do now, but obviously did not have as an Army officer. In the dream I am not in uniform but should be. In the dream, somebody is giving me orders that I have no intention of following. It just never works out. I stay on the ground.

People ask me, “Do you miss flying?” the answer is: “Of course.” However, I know in my mind and my heart that flying is no longer part of life. That part of my story is done. It was wonderful while it lasted, but it’s over now, and I have many other things to do. I have other responsibilities. I am no longer a pilot. I can’t return to that identity. Even in my dreams, I know that I can’t go back.

I had a conversation yesterday, via Zoom, with a woman who is the guiding teacher for the Zen sangha to which I belong. She asked me questions about my life and I babbled on for a while. Then she spoke briefly about detachment and letting go. Zen is all about that. Zen is about being in the moment and not hanging on to things that are either lost in the past or hidden in the future. All there that exists is the present. The past is dead and the future a mystery.

The teacher gave me a subject on which to meditate. I am not very good at letting go of things, especially relationships. It is hard for me to stay in the moment, although our young grandson, Asher, does his best to keep me in the here and now. Caring fulltime for the little guy does not allow me much time to wallow in the past. That is a very good thing. In that respect, Asher is an excellent spiritual guide, and one who loves me, as I love him.

I write about Asher frequently. At this point, my life revolves around the boy. I have a friend, who reads my blog, and he once asked me what I will do when Asher is no longer in my life. The guiding teacher from the Zen sangha also touched on that. Will I be able to let go of Asher when he no longer needs my full attention? I don’t know. I will not know the answer to that question until the moment when he slips away from me (or I from him).

It is clear that someday Asher and I will separate. That is inevitable. That will hurt. The only question is how I will accept it.

He will be always in my dreams.

Five Years Old

December 2nd, 2025

I walked up the staircase to the kindergarten classroom. Martha was at the top of the stairs. She smiled at me and said,

“So, today is the big day! Asher was so excited coming in!”

I found our grandson, Asher, and my wife, Karin standing next to Asher’s school locker. Asher was changing into his indoor shoes, and Karin was exchanging a new set of Asher’s clothes for an older, now too small set that Asher kept in his locker in case he needed to change for some reason. Asher’s classmates were sitting or standing in the hallway waiting for Miss Sara to greet them and bring them into the classroom one by one. She does that with them every school day. It lets the child know that he or she is important to Miss Sara as an individual. Waldorf education puts on emphasis on rituals like that and today was no exception.

Miss Sara told Karin and me that she had set up chairs for us near to her seat. Asher was given a chair right next to Miss Sara today, and only for today. She invited the other children into the classroom, and they all sat in a circle with Miss Karina on a round carpet. Sara brought Asher into the room last of all.

He came in wearing a silk cape and a felted crown that was deep blue in color and studded with stars. She shepherded him up to the front of the room and had him sit next to her facing his classmates. She had a small table in front of her with a wooden platter that held five beeswax candles. She took a match and carefully lit each one. Asher sat in his chair and stared at his classmates.

Miss Sara told the class that today a special day, and she then slowly told them this story:

“Once upon a time, in a place both far away and close to us, there lived a heavenly child. This child worked in the House of the Sun and in the House of the Moon. He was happy in heaven, and he spent time with the angels.

One day, the clouds parted and the heavenly child saw below him a beautiful jewel in the dark sky. He said, ‘What is that? I want to go there!’

His angel replied, ‘That is the earth. You cannot go there yet.’

On another day, the clouds parted again, and the child saw the earth up close. He could see all the different colors and the trees and animals. He could see people. He saw a man and a woman, and he loved them. He said,

‘I want to go down there and be with that family!’

His angel told him, ‘Not yet. First you must work in the House of Dreams.’

So, the child worked in the House of Dreams, and he dreamt of the man and the woman. He also dreamt of grandparents who were full of love. In his dream he told them, ‘I want to be part of your family!’

Woman smiled at him, and the man nodded.

When the child left the House of Dreams, his angel said that he could go to the earth and join the family. The child walked across the rainbow bridge that stretched from heaven to earth. He hesitated for a moment. His angel told him,

‘Go across. I will be at your side.’ “

Miss Sara paused. Then she continued and told the children,

“On that day Asher was born. That was five years ago!”

She told Asher to cup his hands and close his eyes so that she could give him a gift. She dropped two small, highly polished stones into his palms. One was dark green and heart-shaped, and the other had bright, multicolored stripes.

She told him to blow out the candles on the wooden tray. It took him several tries, but he did so.

His classmates cheered.

Asher grinned.

I wept.

Carrie

October 19th, 2025

Carrie Zettel is dead.

On October 12th, Carrie was killed by her daughter. The young woman bludgeoned her mother to death with a rock in the backyard of their home. The killing was all over the news, probably because of its particularly gruesome nature. My wife, Karin, and I didn’t know about Carrie’s murder until a couple days later. The funeral was yesterday, Saturday the 18th. Karin attended the service. She went there because, years ago, we knew that family quite well.

Two of our children attended Tamarack Waldorf School with Carrie’s two kids. She had a son and a daughter. Her son was in a class with our youngest boy. Both of our families lived in the southern part of Milwaukee County, which is far away from the Waldorf school, so we carpooled to school nearly every day. We did that until our son and her son graduated from Tamarack in 2008. After that, our paths diverged, and we lost contact with each other.

Every death is a tragedy, but some deaths defy understanding. Apparently, Carrie’s daughter has a long history of mental illness, so perhaps the killing was not completely unexpected. But still, how does a person wrap their head around this kind of violence? How does Carrie’s son deal with this? Is it even possible to come to terms with trauma like this?

I don’t know. I have never dealt with a death of this sort. The closest I’ve come is when our oldest son went to war in Iraq. He killed people there, and I have had difficulty accepting that reality. However, my experience is like nothing compared to what Carrie’s son has to process.

My wife told me that the funeral service was well done. The son gave an eloquent eulogy about Carrie. Another person mentioned to me that the son “stood tall and spoke well of the new commandment” (“Love one another” from John 13:34). I thought that maybe I should’ve gone there with Karin.

I had another place to be when the funeral was in progress. My friend from the synagogue, Ken, had invited me a couple days before the funeral to come to his home for kiddush, seeing as it was Shabbat, and his wife was out of town. I had already told Ken that I would come to share the meal he had prepared for us before I knew anything about the time and date of the funeral. It was impossible for me to tell Ken that I had a funeral to attend. Since he is an observant Jew, he does not communicate electronically at all on the sabbath: no phone calls, no texts, no emails, nothing. I couldn’t just not show up. So, I went to Ken’s home and kept him company for two hours. I needed to do that. We ate, we talked and enjoyed each other’s company. Shabbat is a gift from God, a day for rest, prayer, and friendship. Nobody should be alone on Shabbat.

I told Ken about Carrie, and we talked about her at length. I am sure that Ken prayed for her. Even if I wasn’t at the funeral, I remembered her.

She was good woman. I grieve for her. I grieve for her children.

Funeral

September 6th, 2025

Yesterday morning I dropped off my grandson, Asher, at the Waldorf school. It made no sense to me to drive all the way back home since I need to pick up the boy in four hours, so I wandered around the east side of Milwaukee. I decided to walk from Brady Street south on Van Buren to the Cathedral of St. John the Evangelist. The cathedral is the heart of Catholicism in southeastern Wisconsin. Sometimes the heart seems to be suffering from arteriosclerosis, yet it still beats. Many years ago, when our kids were at the Waldorf school, I would often hike down to the church. Somehow, after nearly a quarter century, the journey yesterday seemed significantly longer.

The doors of the cathedral were unlocked. Way back when, the place was always open during the day. During the winter months, homeless people would huddle in the rear of church, often sleeping in the pews buried in their overcoats and caps, just trying to stay out of the bitter cold for a while. When I walked into the sanctuary yesterday, there were no homeless folks, but there was a funeral Mass in progress. A woman handed me a pamphlet describing the liturgy. I took it and sat down in the back.

The Mass was for Thomas “Tommy” August Salzsieder, a person unknown to me. The priest was in the middle of giving a eulogy. I wondered how well the priest knew Tommy. I have already been to funerals where the presider knew almost nothing about the deceased, and his speech was basically a work of fiction. The priest described Tommy as a man of faith, and that “his life was not ended, just transformed”.

I also wondered about that comment. What does “transformed” actually mean? Looking at the assembled mourners, I noticed a lot of people with grey hair or no hair at all. They were all elderly, my age. We are all in the batting order for this transformation of our lives. The priest talked about heaven, a concept that I simply do not understand. When I was young, I thought heaven was someplace where God pats you on the head and gives you a cookie for being a good boy. Now, I have no idea what it is. Honestly, heaven does not sound terribly inviting. I would be okay if the end of my life was like when they put me under anesthesia for surgery. Nothing. A void. A blank screen.

I thought about Tommy, and frankly I envied him. His work is done. He no longer needs to fight or struggle in life. Life is beautiful and glorious at times, but it also literally exhausting. Tommy can rest now, whatever that actually means.

The liturgy was a work of devotion. I could tell that. The cantor did a soulful rendition of “Panis Angelicus” from Cesar Franck. A funeral can be inspiring if there is love involved, even love that is buried in grief. I have been to funerals where it was obvious that the service was the result of reluctant duty. People went through the motions hurriedly in order to get the dead person deep in the ground as quickly as possible.

A while back my therapist gave me an odd question. He wrote and asked,

“What do you want Asher to remember about you — not what you did, but who you were?”

I have no idea. In a way, the question seems irrelevant. I won’t care what Asher remembers when I’m dead. I’m pretty sure of that.

However, what Asher remembers may very much matter to him. His memories might affect the trajectory of his life. Will he remember when I was angry and impatient? Will he remember when I had his back? Will he remember when I failed to listen to him? Will he remember that he received unconditional love from me?

But I’m describing things I do, but not who I am. I don’t know who I am, not really. Maybe Asher will have a better idea of who was when I’m gone than I have right now.

I hold Asher in my arms at night so he can sleep. When I die will a meta-parent hold me in their arms? Will God whisper to me,

“I embrace you now. I have always embraced you.”

Sunshine

September 3rd, 2025

Every Thursday I take my grandson, Asher, to see his therapist. Once we get off the elevator, Asher runs down the hallway and bursts into the waiting room. The office manager grins at Asher from behind the counter and says,

“There’s that energy! There’s that sunshine!”

Other people react to Asher in a similar way. Asher had his first taste of kindergarten today. There are seventeen children in his class. The teacher uses symbols to designate which locker and chair each student has. Most of the kids can’t read yet, so they key on their personal symbol. One child has bunny for a symbol, another has a rainbow, one has diamond. Asher has sunshine. His image is that of a blazing sun with rays flowing out from it.

The teacher picked symbols that somehow capture the essence of each child, or at least what she perceives that to be. She sees an inner light in Asher. When he’s excited, he’s incandescent. He can bring joy to people without any effort at all. It’s just who he is.

This is not to say that Asher is all sweetness and light. He’s not. An angry Asher is a sight to behold. I have a Buddhist friend who described the boy as “a force to be reckoned with”. Indeed. Asher has a strong will and an equally strong intellect. He is often intensely passionate. I can’t recall him ever being lukewarm about anything. The boy isn’t even five years old yet, and he already lives on the edge.

How do you control a kid like that? Well, you don’t. You work with him and try to guide that erratic geyser of energy. A child like Asher has a rare gift, but he is also a person who requires love, patience, and understanding. He is simultaneously lovable and terrifying at times.

That’s our grandson.

How Did We Get So Old?

August 12th, 2025

Karin and I celebrated our wedding anniversary yesterday. Forty-one years. It seems like an impossibly long time. Of course, we know elderly couples that have been married for sixty years or more. We also know people who didn’t even make it through a year of marriage. And we know couples who don’t bother with marriage at all. I don’t understand why some couples stay married and others don’t. I certainly don’t why Karin and I are still together. Is it karma, love, or dumb luck? Or is it a combination of all those factors?

I suspect that a reason that a couple might stay together is because they have an intense, almost irrational level of commitment to each other. The “until death do us part” part of wedding vows is actually taken seriously. In many cases, marriage is seen as a contract between two parties. The relationship is purely transactional. It can be broken one party fails to comply with its obligations. A marriage can also be viewed as a covenant, as an unbreakable agreement where both individuals promise to stick withe the other regardless of what happens. In some situations, like spousal abuse or addiction, even a covenant can be broken, but the commitment is there at the beginning and the two members of the marriage do their best to make it work. That involves struggle and sacrifice, and sometimes love and joy. It is a vocation, a lifelong process. In a sense, two people really can become one.

Karin and I went out to eat yesterday. Our grandson, Asher, visited his mama for two hours, so Karin and I could be a couple while he was with her. Asher is constantly with us, since we are his fulltime caregivers. Maybe two or three times a year, we are Asher-free and we can do adult activities without a four-year-old tagging along. It just happened that one of these events occurred yesterday on our anniversary. We made the most of the opportunity.

We went to Cozumel, a Mexican restaurant that has outdoor seating on a balcony that sits high above the banks of the Milwaukee River. Karin ordered a potato fajita and I got choriqueso, an appetizer thar consists of chorizo and queso with a smattering of onions and peppers. It is basically a bowl of spicy cholesterol, but it tasted good with tortilla chips. Karin had a raspberry margarita and I had a cold mug of Negra Modelo.

We talked while we ate. We reminisced about our wedding in her home village in Germany four decades ago. Some of that is hard to recall. We have memories of memories at this point. Karin wanted to know what we had for dessert at the reception. I had no idea. Germans don’t do massive wedding cakes like Americans do. Actually, they prefer to have a plethora of smaller cakes. I remember her parents’ house being packed with kuchen from friends and neighbors.

Oddly enough, I do remember the wine we had. It was local vintage from Karin’s region of Germany. We toasted with a Marklsheimer Propstberg, a fruity white wine produced in the little town where we had our reception. It’s odd what things I can recall and what things I have completely forgotten.

Karin looked up from her meal and asked me,

“How did we get so old?”

I shrugged and said, “Lots of practice.”

She gave me a smirk. Then she said, “I’m seventy already.”

Yeah, she is. I’m sixty-seven. Most of our lives are in the rear view mirror. We’ve already done many things and made most of our decisions. Now, we are busy raising a little boy. This is our vocation, our calling. It may be the last one for us.

Karin didn’t finish her fajita. We asked the waiter for a box to take home. We were sitting at a tiny table at the edge of the balcony. I was trying to scoop the remains of the fajita into the box. I had a couple plates stacked up to make room. I nudge the plates and utensils as I filled the box.

“Fuck!” I said suddenly.

Karin asked me, “What is it?”

“A fork went over the edge of the balcony.”

She looked down and there, thirty feet below us, was a fork from our table.

We paid the bill and got ready to leave. I glanced at the waiter. I asked Karin,

“Should I tell him about the fork?”

She nodded.

I walked over to the waiter and tried to explain what had happened. He looked puzzled. I took him to the side of the balcony. I said,

“Look straight down.”

He did, and then he laughed.

“He told me, “Don’t worry. This happens all the time. Have a good night.”

I replied, “Gracias.”

He smiled, and said, “De Nada.”

We left to pick up Asher.