April 13,
2013
Friends
gather round for a 50th birthday celebration at our old stompin’
grounds. Without a set of crutches or a cane I can maneuver my way around the
tables and chairs of folks without being the victim of an ankle injury gone
awry. I drink Summit Pale Ale and munch on crackers and bite-sized cheese
blocks, crunching chips and flavorful salsa, avoiding the soaked mini-wieners, greasy
fried chicken wings, saturated Swedish meatballs and other Midwest
party favorites. Rainbow Happy Birthday
banners outline the borders of the Sports Bar and poster boards of a collage of
photos from kindergarden-to-high school graduation line the tables. We roar
over the outdated attire and helmet hairdos. The Midwest
twang reverberates throughout the vast space. Polar bear hugs and hog squeals
emit from the mouths of old friends and family as familiar faces emerge out of
chubby cheeks and widening waistbands.
Unearthed
medical conditions instigate long involved conversations of tragic cancer
treatments, painful carpel tunnel recovery, never-ending back surgery
complications and nausea-inducing Chemo injections absorb into long-sleeves,
wool blazers and elastic-waist jeans. We replace our sympathy and exchange it
for laughter and hilarious parlor jokes. Seventies music plays in the background
while introductions and stories of how we met one another come together in the new
play of relationship and belonging.
Photos of
wide smiles and arms wrapped around one another are displayed on the camera screen.
We have a membership to the club of friendship and chapter in the story to
regurgitate upon our future meeting.
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