“Did you ever think I would go to prom in a skirt?”
The kid is standing over me, dressed in black dockers, a green, almost pin-striped, button down shirt, with a suit vest over it, opened (of course) and a tan felt hat, (maybe a fedora?) pushed up and cocked to one side over his floppy pewter colored hair. (I say pewter because the blue dye has faded into his blond in such a way that his head is now covered with a baby fine mop of grayish hair.)
“You’re wearing a kilt. That’s not exactly the same as a skirt.” I reply over my the top of my readers. (I cannot believe I wear readers. Or that I now say things of an incredulous nature over the top of them to my children.)
“Yeah, but did you ever think?” he ask. His eyes are all twinkly and bubbly in that way that happens when he is himself. His real self.
“Well, you are currently dressed like a newspaper man from the 1930’s. (I say this with much mirth) So, no, I am not terribly surprised.”
His eyes twinkle again. He laughs. The microwave dings and he goes for his popcorn.
He is heading downstairs to watch Casablanca, or Peaky Blinders, or The Civil War by Ken Burns.
Please dear God, I pray, may some things never change.