My Friend Wringing Her Hands.

My friend is hosting a dinner party; she is going out of her way. She is thirty-something but looks twenty-something and feels teenage-something, like me, like we all do.

She is hip and witty and relevant. Cool pad, cool hair, cool clothes. But as she hands me a skinny Margarita (we’re so L.A.), as she puts the tortillas on a serving platter, she does this thing with her hands. Wrists twisting, she wrings them. And in the flash of a second, buried inside that mindless motion, she is transported forty years into the future.

I see her as a mother and then as a grandmother. I see her when she is old and no longer current. I see her getting there, I see us all getting there, I see us aging and fading. There is no stopping it.

Our parents and our grandparents stood in a kitchen once, too. They welcomed pals with cocktails. They were stylish and groovy. Today we are the ones who are young(ish) and vibrant(ish), but in the gesture of my friend’s fingers, I see that one day we’ll be insignificant. Ancient. Gone. So I hang on to the now. I chug my tequila. I eat a floury carb. Anything to dull the pain, the avalanche of lastima released in her palms.

p.s. Cloth napkins make great hankies.