The age you take early retirement to open a neighborhood coffee shop. Also, the age I want to ask if you cannot recall the chemistry of our incandescent emotions, the intramolecular forces in our hungry kisses. You give my son a stern lecture and instructions: no drinking, no drugs, no hanky-panky, drop off by 1:00 A.M. The withered flowers on the corsage you once placed on my wrist are gossamer delicate, the satin ribbon spotted with your rust-colored DNA. The age my teen invites yours to prom and I pull out my memory box.
I want to ask if the surgeon sliced through bone, whether the pinky finger has autonomy, whether it can exist independently, whether separation hurts. Also, the age I observe your ten fingers and the broad gold band. I discover you're my nine-year-old's homeroom teacher, tell you he struggles with multiplication. The age I get a divorce, because my ex-husband's mother didn't teach him he should never hit a woman, and I fumble-flounder to glue the pieces he broke. Also, the age I run into you at a city council meeting to advocate for a dog park, and I must scoot over to accommodate the crowd until I feel your body's oh-so-familiar warmth. When I see you while walking the dog, I shush my heart for cheat-fluttering yet raise an arm in a tentative gesture. The age I marry my spouse, return to our hometown to care for ailing parents and move into a house a street away from you―by accident, not design. You tell me our colleges are separated by 999 miles and we should date other people. When I ask if doctors recommend surgery to separate the fingers―it would be impossible to wear a ring when you get married―you burrow the hand inside your pocket. The pin hidden in my satin-ribboned corsage of baby pink roses pierces your fused finger, and I stanch the blood with a napkin. The age you ask me to prom and I go buoyant, like the hot air balloons we watch from your backyard. Also, the age I understand the pinky finger of your left hand is fused to your ring finger. At lunch, I relent, offer you a bite of my chocolate cake, and ask why you have nine fingers. I slap you, and you stand there, fists curled, screaming that your mom said never to hit a girl. The age you yank the hair ties off my pigtails.
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