Sharing, Part 2

If I had imagined, wished for or planned it, it wouldn't have happened. But there we were, R. an I., having dinner on the half-varnished deck, her asking me about my life, just as E. had done two nights before.

Something in the air perhaps, or the water; maybe the moon.

Of course with her, being older and female, it was different. She wasn't solely the audience. She was a participant. She wasn't interested in only listening. She wanted to reveal.

I took it in.

We spoke of our respective loves and mistakes, of heartbreak and healing.

The memories I shared were long dormant—but for her they were vivid. She tried matching them up with the mother she knows, wincing at the thought of me being with anyone but F.

Then she shared, tentatively, discretely, relieved that she could. I matched up her revelations with the daughter I  know, and did some wincing of my own.

It was tough to not preach or worry; to offer my meager two cents and sit back.

She took in what she could.

Then, she cleared the table.