Tuesday Night

The traffic was thick between my house and Helotes, my former hometown.  I was twenty minutes late, but only missed the opening song of the Christmas pageant.  The cafeteria stage was full of elves and reindeer and one jolly Santa, the second graders singing  along the rim of the stage.  Cameras and cell phones were flashing. Parents and grandparents beamed.  

Coincidentally, this was also the 78th birthday of my children's dad, so we all went to El Chaparral together for dinner after the pageant.

What used to feel strained between us has ironed itself out enough that we can share a table.  As he told about our early days in Helotes, I chimed in from time to time, a story duet.  Yes, Helotes was a two-lane road back then, no stores to speak of outside Loop 410.  Yes, the Cornyval was a tiny little street fair back then, not a huge fair drawing thousands.  Yes, there was that time when such and such happened.  Facts all.

It was, after all, many years ago that we were still married, still frozen in a dance that never worked.  Now we share children and grandchildren, seldom at the same time, and well-worn-from-the-telling memories.

I was kind of bittersweet-happy driving home, that for the sake of our shared children and grands, we pulled off a shared birthday meal, at opposite ends of the table. It hasn't always been that way.