Visiting Ours

Mar 29, 2026

September 20, 2017

It’s not regret. It’s an analysis.

When you’re 50+ and you’ve never had children, measuring time is not as conveniently linear as it is for those who have.

Having kids helps you mark time. You have photographs, grade changes, ever-changing interests, artwork pinned to a refrigerator that becomes more realistic over time, then possibly replaced by an essay that shines.

Eventually, nothing fronts the fridge, save for reminders; a calendar of sorts, your children’s whereabouts upcoming, and post-it notes for your own self.

What’s not on the front of a fridge to remind you of your child’s age can now be found inside chilling. Perhaps they have graduated toward a vegetarian diet, or choices beyond the palette of popsicles and chocolate milk.

A growing collection of car keys might hang on hooks somewhere.

Soon they’ll be off, leaving you behind, then deciding what to display on their own temperature-controlled appliances. I can’t imagine the gut-check this causes parents who love and adore the beings who rapidly outgrow their cradles. I guess one can hope they don’t advance too quickly and remain so financially dependent that affording a washer-dryer set isn’t in their immediate future, assuring future visits to wash and tumble.

I visited my former employer, Jerome, at his new office in Chagrin Falls at noon last Friday. He has downsized since we last convened. He still services one of the best clients I’ve ever designed for while I worked for him. I was relieved to find this out when I asked if they were still in his portfolio because I know what reliable income they provide.

He treated me to lunch, and we talked as comfortably and openly as we did when I was his employee. I told him that I could talk to him for hours on end. That’s how agreeable his personality is. I hadn’t seen him in close to ten years, but he looks no older to me. If anything, he looks the same or younger.

I told him how it is that we have bosses that are forever remembered for their grace and ability to garner respect, and that there are bosses who are flat-out assholes. He fits the mold of the former, and I’ve been fortunate enough to have experienced a few.

He recently returned from one of his daughter’s weddings in Italy. He seems not—at least on the surface—concerned about her departure from him and his wife. I could be wrong. I’m probably wrong. I’ll bet he wishes she were still at home.

From Chagrin, I visited a dear friend, Kim, whom I met in high school, then dated, hung out with on and off afterwards, and worked alongside years later. I haven’t seen her in close to 20 years. I told her it felt like three years since we last spoke, but I know it’s been much longer. The proof?

“I was so young the last time I saw you that the check I gave you as a wedding gift bounced.”

We laughed.

She, too, appears to me no older than the thirty-year-old I last encountered.

But I can mark the time without doubt after meeting her twins, both soon-to-be high school seniors. Her son, JP, is reserved on the surface, but I’ve seen photos of him and his exquisitely outlandish fashion choices, just like his mother. I commented in reminiscence that Kim, at his age, had such an extensive line of bangles parked on her arms that you could hear her approaching from a thousand feet away.

“She still does,” He pointed.

And she does. I missed it.

Are my observation skills waning, or is my focus redirected?

Kim’s daughter, Claire, is gorgeous. I think she knows it. But I see that she sees this as a bonus and not something to cling to with all her might. She is sassy, sarcastic, smart, and even smarter than that. She behaves with an all-knowing wryness that transcends her physicality. In short, she is in charge, she knows it, and her mother respects it, I can tell.

At some point, Claire began spreading peanut butter on a slice of bread while entertaining us with her dry sense of humor, as if on stage, portraying her best character with confidence rarely seen amongst otherwise awkward teens.

She owned the room. And her mother and I sat enamored watching the very same effect we had upon others when we negotiated that age. Soon, I asked Claire if I could take her picture, selling her on the fact that this might be the first time I’ve ever seen a teenager with something in her hand other than a smartphone. Permission granted.

From Kim’s house, I headed further west to visit my friend Maria. She now has a categorically major hurricane named in her honor. I love that Maria is easy to love.

I met a friend of hers, and we shared a conversation in a pub somewhere on the island of Put-In-Bay. Her friend and his wife had a son named Jake. He was beautiful—both physically and intellectually. He is a newly minted chemical engineer. I told his parents and him that I also had a son named Jake. I asked if they would like to see a picture of him. Of course they did. How could they not?

While scrolling through my iPhoto library, Jake asked me how old my Jake was.

“Eleven.”

I loved that as I scrolled, he expected to see a 6th grader soon. When I finally landed on a picture of Jake and handed the other Jake my phone, he did a double-take, then laughed out loud, then passed the phone around the table. Unfazed smiles ensued, and I no longer felt alone and childless. Because I’m not. We chose a different kind of child. And we adore him. He’s the sweetest pup on the planet.

Yesterday I posted something, and a person I don’t know engaged with it. I recognized her last name, the same as a friend I know from Akron. I assumed it was my friend’s sister. I assumed that because the friend I’m referring to is someone I haven’t seen in close to thirty years, and my brain still assumes she’s 20. When I cross-referenced their profile pictures, I realized the stranger was not my friend’s sister, but most likely her grown daughter.

Time flies.

Our children grow wiser, and our faces grow wider. Hopefully, too, do our horizons.

Friday, March 13, 2026

I would see Kim and her children again. I last saw Kim at a friend’s New Year’s Eve party a couple of years ago. Her children, I hadn’t seen since our only encounter nine years ago.

The circumstances weren’t ideal, but having read the excellent book This I Believe (The Personal Philosophies of Remarkable Men and Women), I’ve since adopted the credo clearly stated in the title of one of the book’s essays, “Always Go to the Funeral,” by Deirdre Sullivan.

It begins,

I believe in always going to the funeral. My father taught me that.
The first time he said it directly to me, I was sixteen and trying to get out of going to calling hours for Miss Emerson, my old fifth-grade math teacher. I did not want to go. My father was unequivocal. “Dee,” he said, “you’re going. Always go to the funeral. Do it for the family.”
So my dad waited outside while I went in. It was worse than I thought it would be: I was the only kid there. When the condolence line deposited me in front of Miss Emerson’s shell-shocked parents, I stammered out, “Sorry about this,” and stalked away. But, for that deeply weird expression of sympathy delivered twenty years ago, Miss Emerson’s mother still remembers my name and always says hello with tearing eyes.

Kim’s former spouse and her children’s father, Joe, had died earlier in the week. All of them by his side as he lay unconscious with brain damage—the result of a sudden cardiac episode. I know the devastation. I visited my brother Matthew in the hospital five years ago while he was unconscious with brain damage—the result of a sudden brain aneurysm. Both men were too young to die.

I set out from Jamestown, New York, around 2:30 pm, expecting to arrive at the funeral visitation in Lakewood, Ohio, by five. I hoped to see Maria (from above) there too, as she was the one who shared the sad news with me.

The drive was dark and rainy, with unrelenting gusts of wind. The kind of drive that requires both hands wrapped around the wheel. When I was about 20 miles out, the precipitation eased a little, offering me a sense of reprieve. I dialed up my epic playlist. When I was 13 miles from my destination, angled beams of sunshine powered their way through the clouds. I know it was 13 miles because I checked. I checked because, at the same moment, M. Ward’s lyrics from his song, “Pirate Dial,” added to the astral nature of the moment. Its sweetly haunting tone hypnotized me, and suddenly the raindrops were replaced by tearing eyes as I sailed past the slate-hued shores of Lake Erie on the starboard side of my Ridgeline.

It’s alright if you don’t mind
It’s alright if you do
You’re still coming through
On a pirate dial
On a pirate dial
I can hear ya
I can hear ya
It’s alright if they don’t mind
It’s alright if they do
You’re still coming through
On a pirate dial
On a pirate dial
And I can hear ya
I can hear ya
I can hear ya
I can hear ya
I can hear ya
I can hear ya

I thought of Claire and hoped she would be open to whatever frequency it is to hear her father on a pirate dial. I made a mental note to ask if the number 13 meant anything to her. When I did, it didn’t, but I told her of the bars of sun and the song. And as I write these words this very moment, heavy snow spins chaotically while the sun still somehow shines.

When I arrived at the funeral home on Detroit Avenue, I turned left to park on a perpendicular side street. After bundling up, I made my way inside and spotted Kim immediately as she began walking down a flight of steps. Her smile indicated she hadn’t expected to see me, then waved me to follow. That’s when I saw Jim, the host of the New Year’s Eve party two years back. Jim is one of the greatest men I’ve ever known. I feel alive in his company.

The three of us descended together and entered an annex, then sat with a couple of others and Kim’s parents, whom I hadn’t seen in 40 years. They looked fabulous and are still fabulous people: sharp, smart, warm, and engaging. I hope I’m as age-defiant in my 80s.

Regardless of my hopes and the fact that I’m forever 35 in my heart, I’m also aware that I’ve entered the realm of elder people’s lines of conversation, as evidenced by my willingness to discuss my recent hip replacement surgery without provocation, as I did at one point during our round table. I’ve had one, Kim’s father, Thom, two, and Jim—the hippest of all— has had three.

Thom is an attorney, and it didn’t take me long to steer the conversation to the past because it’s what we have in common. I reminded him of the time he negotiated a one-thousand-dollar settlement for Kim after the two of us were t-boned by another driver in downtown Cleveland back in the 80s. “Where’s my bonus?,” I asked facetiously.

Perhaps my tone sounded serious. As Kim turned to Thom and said,

“Remember when my nose was injured in that accident?”

Kim and I were heading out for a night of laughter and revelry.

“Remember the song we were jamming to when that guy crashed into us?,” I said, smiling at Kim. “Human League,” I hinted. “Was it Fascination?”

“Yeah, not the other one,” she confirmed, which is the funniest thing she could have said, because yeah, Human League only had two songs of note. The other, I can’t recall.

I went on to testify that our light was definitely green, but when I got out of my car, I saw it turn red, and I panicked a little, thinking the other guy could lie and blame it on us.

“No, remember that guy with the box of chicken wings saw it happen and said it was the other guy’s fault.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” I’d forgotten that detail.

“He offered you a chicken wing, and you ate it while we waited for the cops to show up,” Kim said, with her trademark smirk teetering on laughter.

I’d forgotten that detail as well. It’s funny what we do and don’t remember.

I remember my car was totaled, and Kim (before cell phones) called her father (somehow), and he came to pick us up and drove us back to Brecksville, dropping me off at my dad’s house first. Thanks, Thom, you’re a good man and an excellent father.

I had already expressed my condolences to Claire earlier, but needed to offer the same to her brother, JP, so I excused myself and went upstairs to find him. I didn’t think I’d recognize him, so I looked for Claire to guide me. She wasn’t hard to find. She’s six feet tall. At least I think she is, because I am, and we stood at eye level to one another. She could have been wearing heels, but I never looked at her feet, so I don’t know. She pointed JP out to me, and we chatted briefly.

I am fascinated by genetics. In this setting, specifically what Kim and Joe’s children inherited. Here’s what I see: from her father, Claire grabbed his stature gene. Joe’s most notable physical feature was his height. He must have been at least 6 feet 3. From Kim, her extroversion. Whereas JP inherited Kim’s more diminutive stature and Joe’s chill, no-nonsense demeanor. Each child inherited intelligence and thoughtfulness from both parents. Anyway, that’s how I see it.

I realize that funereal events, in essence, are solemn affairs, but the gathering of souls mourning loss can provide comfort and, sometimes, I hope, bring a sense of community and sparks of joy. It is my wish that, when I die, any gathering that might follow be drawn to reflection, a reminder that life is temporary and it is up to us to make the most of our remaining days. With that, my encounters with Joe were limited, but the handful of times I was in his company, I found him gracious and thoughtful.

While sorrow is inevitable, the sun also rises.

I’ll finish with a few magical moments due to being in the realm of love.

The significance of the number 13 wasn’t revealed until I began to write. The visitation was on March 13. My hip surgery was exactly one year prior, on March 13. That we gathered to honor Joe on Friday the 13th does not make it unlucky. Karen and I got married on a Friday the 13th.

In the downstairs annex, Kim expressed an invitation, “You and Karen should come visit me in Scottsdale.” That lifted my spirits. I pictured it and wished we were there now. This has been the longest winter I can recall.
A group of multi-aged blondes crashed our annex party at one point. One of them, an elder teen, possibly 20-something, announced to our gathering, looking directly at me as she said it, “I’m Stephanie’s daughter.”
“I’m Bob’s son,” I said in response.
I thought about my father, who died on March 31, 13 years ago.
One of the visiting attendants asked where I was from. For some strange, unknown reason, I said, “East Mars.”
Surprised by my own answer, I tried to make it make sense by adding, “I’m good friends with Elon Musk.”

When I left and got back in my truck, I texted longtime Cleveland friends Doug and Christopher. (I have Christopher listed in my contacts as Xopher)

Our text exchange:

Me: All done. Where u at?
Xopher: Lakewood border. Runnin an errand. Are you really in Lakewood?
Me: Yes. Detroit & Robinwood Avenues
Xopher: Meet us at Mahall’s? Or the Winchester both on Madison. Should be due south of you.
Me: Okay, but which of the ors? You decide.

I didn’t get a response right away, so I began heading toward the Winchester via GPS directives. I chose Winchester because Mahall’s sounded too much like MAHA. While driving north, I got a ping.

Xopher: Actually Humble Wine Bar. On Detroit about 8 blocks from you.
Me: OK
Xopher: On our way! Whoo!

I pulled over to reset my Waze and typed Humble Wine Bar. Waze gave me a new set of turn-by-turn directions. This destination change was divine intervention as the re-route led me to approach the bar by way of… wait for it… Mars Avenue.

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