Sunday Morning

Last night was the first time Annie and I have ever been out together, just the two of us, on a Saturday night.

We spent some time downtown at a bookstore on Broadway, then at a local joint for a late dinner. As we sat and ate and talked, I noticed a group of young women standing up to leave, looking into mirrors, making sure they had nothing in their teeth, that their hair was neat. I watched as they headed out and into the possibility of what a Saturday night held for them. As the front door of the restaurant opened, the cold air blew in, and in that moment I realized that Annie and I were sitting on the same block where I first met David.

I was just the age of the young women leaving, and the memory of being out with friends on a Saturday night in the city came flooding back. I remember so clearly what the possibility of those nights held for us, for me, the possibility of romance, of love.

As I watched the young women laughing, adjusting their skirts and disappearing into their night of hope, I felt an overwhelming sense of sisterhood. I sent out a wish that each of them would be as lucky as I have been, to know the kind of love I have known, and that in years from now they may find themselves sitting on a Saturday night, sharing a meal with their daughters.