He's mad at himself that he can't get over her. He's young and he's got goals, quit smoking, gave up weekend drunks. Now he tackles model airplane kits, one small piece at a time. He wants to learn mastery. That you'll never get over her.
Love is a rock in the surf off the Pacific.
Life batters it. I still love the boy who jockeyed cars, expertly in the lots on New York Avenue, parking them so close, he had to lift his lithe body out the window those sultry August afternoons. And the one I followed to Africa where we slept on pink embroidered sheets. Whose laugh lines I traced with a pleasure God must have felt when He etched them in, just before He sent him through the chute. Each year that passes is one more I miss out on.