Clipă de Lumină

I distinctly remember spending the night at a best friend’s house and waking up in the morning to the news that her little sister had been born. That little sister is now fifteen and has a driver’s permit. I’ve decided that no one that I remember being born should ever be allowed to drive. That is why when I have kids, they’ll never be able to drive. I’ll let them be like their Uncle Andru and ride a broken-down, one-speed bike wherever they go. Of course, banjo-playing “Uncle Andru” might not be the best example for my darling children—he hitchhikes and sings about smoking a corncob pipe in bed at age thirteen.

In another three years—just after I come back from Romania—this little sister will be starting college. I think it should be illegal. By all standards (except those of my third-graders in Little Rock), twenty-three is not old. But why do I feel so ancient then? Half of my friends already show off their grey hairs; luckily, the only grey hairs I have so far are on my cat, Peter Pog (also old at eleven). Sweet Peter Pog just stepped on the keyboard and somehow switched it to large print; might he be hinting something?! Peter actually might be furry example of how we should greet the elderly years (anything after twenty-one in human terms). He just gets friendlier and spends more time sleeping and drooling in peoples’ laps. Sounds good to me. Romania, here I come!