This winter I went home to St. Louis and found that most of my friends from school were married. Many had kids. As in plural. My best friend was pregnant for the third time with her husband. My best friend from kindergarten and old pen pal has three kids with her husband. A friend from college was recently married. (All these people are black women for those playing at home.) My parents, while still obviously my parents, seemed much older than I remembered them. Their home, while still tidy and loving, seemed more of an empty nest than it had ever been, too big for just two people and a cat.
When my father grunted getting out of the car, saying he was stiff, I asked what was wrong and he said he was just old and turning 70 this year.