From time to time, K. and I get together for lunch. We used to work together long ago and kept in touch. It’s hard for me to believe she’ll be 64 this year. I told her that her spirit is like a 30 year old to me and she has a glow about her–a youthfulness–that doesn’t make her seem her age.

K. is picky about where we eat, so I was pleasantly surprised when she said yes to the Indian restaurant that serves a lunch buffet. Is it clean she asked. Yes, I said. Is it good? Well, I like it…yes, it’s good. We chose a table near the back in this dimly lit restaurant with colorful walls and Indian music playing in the background. We went up to fill our plates with a variety of Indian fare. When we get back to the table, we both admire our plates. To me, it’s like a palette of desert colors waiting to be painted into a beautiful piece of art, and the spices take me somewhere far away that I’d like to experience in real time. K. is excited and after taking her first bite, she is in love with this place and plans to come back and bring back her co-workers. I tell her I’m so happy to hear it, that I’m glad she likes it and was willing to give it a chance.

We talk about our lives, about how we have in common this drifting quality, this thing in both of us where we never really found “careers” and that neither of us has ever aspired to “success” in the traditional sense. It’s interesting for me to juxtapose our similarities given the age span between us.

We talk about how I’m trying to get pregnant and how it’s scary, being older and not having a super solid foundation, but having a deep feeling that things will work out if indeed I am able to conceive and follow through with a healthy pregnancy. She tells me how she’s always wanted children, but she said from the get go her husband made it clear he did not want children. He did not want to bring a child into this world; and I have to say, I used to feel exactly the same way, but things have changed. I have changed.

My mother conceived me when she was 43 and I was born in the summer when she was 44. This year I will be two years younger than the age she was when I was conceived. When I told my brother, who practically raised me, that hubby and I were trying to get pregnant, he was so excited for us and said that he and his girlfriend had wondered about it. I told him of my concerns, being older and all; and of course, he reminded me of our mother having me when she was close to my age. I said, yes, but…and gave him a few of my concerns. He said to keep positive. I said, yes, and asked him if he would pray for me, and he said of course.

At this point I don’t want to get my hopes up because first we have to actually get pregnant and second…well, it’s very possible we can’t. It’s difficult to make a decision to want something, something as big and life changing as having a baby, only to feel that the odds are against you, even though you see older mothers conceiving and having healthy babies all the time. We haven’t’ been trying terribly long, but each month I get my period, there’s a small sadness that hovers over me. When I see pregnant mothers, there is a longing inside of me. When I play with little A., I want so much to be a mother. But, this is in my body’s hands and in God’s hands. What will be, will be. My migraines are a whole other issue. I can’t take any medication, except Tylenol, which really doesn’t help. I stopped taking the daily meds right away when we knew we were trying and hubby said to be sure to speak to the doctor about the medication I take. I remain hopeful.

So K. and I talked about all that and she assured me that she had no regrets at not having children, but the thought didn’t leave my mind, and I vowed to myself and hubby felt the same way; we don’t want to have the regret of at least not trying.

We also talked about movies. First it started with me asking her if her husband was emotional or if he was more like my husband, which is probably like most men–which is hardly emotional.

I gave her a recent example. I told her how we were in a nice restaurant and for some reason I decided to tell hubby about a Japanese movie that I had watched called Departures and how although there was a bit of light humor throughout, ultimately, it was a melancholy film that moved me deeply, especially the final scene. I told her that as I described the final scene to him, I choked up and that he gave me this look to say are you really going to start crying in the middle of dinner while I’m trying to enjoy my steak and shrimp. I pushed through it without tears.

So here I am retelling the same final scene to K. and the strange thing is, I thought it would be out of my system; instead, I was reliving the moment and I choked up again, only I let the tears come and she got emotional and she started crying and then laughing and then I started laughing and crying again and then laughing because here we are in the restaurant, two women crying over their meals.

She then told me about a movie that made her emotional called Hachi. I told her I hadn’t seen it but that I knew of the movie. And well, we went through the process again because as she told me what the movie was about, she started welling up and her emotion touched me and we were crying and laughing again.

I noticed that her tears were a lot bigger than mine. I reached into my bag and offered her a tissue to wipe the mascara that had trickled down her face.

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