Pack your bags. It’s 1989 again, and big hair rules the day. There's your SJG, 31 and wrinkle-free. Check out my pink and blue plaid shirt with shoulder pads out to here. I’m a line-backer with rosy cheeks and coiffed-up hair, in the living room of my parents’ condo, waiting for guests to arrive. That’s you on camera, hon, tilting it this way and that. Artsy balloon shots. Cupcakes from various angles. You’re making me dizzy, you know. Pull back. Keep it simple, if you can. Now friends appear in the hallway, with precious babes in tow. Little ones crawl on the carpet, walk a few steps, plop back down. Some cuddle in blankets, suck on bottles, coo. The toddlers take turns on a rocking horse that’s not a horse at all. It’s a duck. A rocking ducky. So much cooler than a horse. Look. There’s my mother, so pretty at 62, with 10 years left. Happy. Healthy. Full of life. Her hair short and stylish, too. There’s that laugh of hers. God, I miss it.
Hey, there’s my dad at 68, 24 more years to go, working the room, cracking people up. There’s my grandma, 92, only two years left, and who’s she talking to? Your grandma. Can you believe she made it to 104? In the corner, there’s my cousin and my brother. Your folks, your brother. Look at our friends, hon. How they mingle… laugh… sip drinks. A few of them are gone now, too. Check out the couples who didn’t stay married, in a time warp, back together again. Smiling, holding hands. How strange is that? Now the room sings “Happy Birthday." All the people in our life, hon, the ones we lost, the ones still hanging around, singing to our eldest son, a year old, chewing wrapping paper, scooting on his butt. Wait. Our youngest son… where is he? Oh, right. He won't be born till late '91. Okay, shut it off now, hon. That’s enough for today. Time travel takes its toll.
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