“You don’t look a day older,”
he glows amiably.
Which is true.
I have a youthful face.
And being a sport,
I respond in kind.

“Same for you,” I beam,
(shame on my white lie).

In fact, he looks ancient.
His hair, a metallic gray,
His face wizened and pale.
The spongy chin sagging,
The stomach bloated and resigned.

“I always think of flying
when I think of you,” he chuckles.

“Flying?”

“You said you would learn to fly.
Did you ever?”

“Not yet,” I confess.

“Too late for wings now, he cries, tenaciously cheerful.
“Au contraire,” I protest, “still on my list.”

He grins.

We promise to meet for lunch,
when things slow down.

Then off he goes
For another twenty years.

“If we live that long,” he turns to shout
gleefully.

~ Melodie Corrigall

Originally published in: The Driftwood Review