Sweet

God is messing with me.

I went to a meeting at church last night.

Even I get suckered into those.

Then she walked in.

The pretty girl who interfered with my view of the altar Sunday.

Twin fawns.

Unlike Sunday, she was wearing a baggy sweatshirt.

It camouflaged her twin fawns.

Someone in the room began to talk with her.

She responded.

“Sweet.”

That vacuous, meaningless catch-word young women seem fond of using these days.

“Sweet.”

I caught a few more words as she spoke.

Mostly, I heard tones and saw body language.

She is a pretty 18/19 year old.

She talks like it.

She acts like it.

She acts and talks like she knows it.

“I’m young. I’m pretty. I have twin fawns.”

Not fully aware. Only partly conscious of it.

Like an 18 year old.

I’m a 50 year old.

There are more than 32 years between us.

There are decades of joys, of pain, of victory, of loss, of relationships, of partings.

Of living.

Of knowledge.

She can say, “Sweet.”

And it is.

I can only say it with irony.