We have just come home from Chicago, where one of David’s college roommates was married.
They were five. This weekend’s makes four weddings. And, so far, three babies.
I love a wedding. And a homecoming. And, for that matter, babies.
On Friday morning, we borrowed a stroller and marched up to Evanston. Alice called the pigeons ducks and yelled “choo choo!” as we stepped off the platform. The car was packed at first, but mostly everyone left at the stop for Wrigley Field, and there was enough room after that to lift her out of the stroller for a look out the window. She stood on my lap. The trains lurch and rattle. “Whoa, whoa,” she said, losing her balance and sinking into my chest.
She was almost asleep when we got to the Davis Street station, and napped through most of our time on campus.
We have been back a few times before this. And it is so corny, but I can never help thinking, “Oh, I remember…” and “This wasn’t here …” They are still such familiar streets to walk around that I felt I was just about to run into someone from Stockton. All my lives at once. And yet, it seems strange to wonder, “A dozen years ago, could we have imagined pushing this stroller, hiding this dirty diaper in a Starbucks bag while we look for a trashcan?” Because those people were different people, but moreso because we know what happens next in that story now.