The day Kennedy was shot he told me they closed down his school and he spent the afternoon at home watching the events over and over again on his black and white 21 inch Magnavox.

The day Kennedy was shot I was not even born yet, not even a faint whisper in the wind.”What about Watergate, Woodstock, the Cold war, Vietnam?” I asked him just trying to reconfirm that we were both from two different age worlds. To me those events were all mere history lessons in my textbooks but to him they were all real history lessons in his life.

I would be a fool to think that I can ignore the fact that he is older than me. Much much older than me. I mean, if I am looking for someone to care for me in my old age, he ain’t it because you know that idea of growing old together? Well, in this case, it’s just about growing old. First him. And then me.

Obviously it’s not just physical (though there’s much to be said about an older man who keeps fit).

It’s not just emotional.

Not just personal.

And I don’t just mean that he is older than me in seasons or years. I mean generations like in, my mom and him have a lot to talk about and he and my Dad seem to laugh at the same jokes.


Did I mention that I think he probably wants to spend more time with my folks than he does with me?


Which I guess brings me back to the physical aspect of it all. I mean, when love spans across so many generations, isn’t that what it’s all about? Isn’t it? Shouldn’t it be?


On the other hand, he knows every intricate detail about me, about my past my present and the future I long to live. He knows what makes me laugh, what makes me mad and what to do when he wants to calm me down (no not there, ah yes, right there). I know how hard it is to find someone you want to spend time with, to love, to care for. Why should a few little details such as the year on his birth certificate be enough to make me run and hold onto my mother’s apron strings hiding like the little baby I am?

Am I just one more Calista Flockhart, ignoring the realities screaming at me right in the face simply because of the tugging at my heart and the lump in my throat that, once more, brings me back to the same place


and over

and over again.

What kind of mom….falls in love with a man who is old enough to have been her teacher, her father, her mentor, her Rabbi? Ok, maybe not her Rabbi. That’s too creepy. Mental wipe of Rabbi image…done.

My “Indiana Jones” and I are way past the formality called dating. It is irrelevant for us because when he rubs my leg or listens to me talking, it’s just not about what I do for a living or how many kids I have. Those details were so last year, or should I say last generation. That’s simpleton stuff, meant for first dates. I can’t even remember what life was like before we knew each other.

We are way past first dates. If the world wasn’t so crazy, by any normal standards we would be right up there celebrating our silver or our gold.

But he hesitates. And frustrates the hell out of me.

The tension is overwhelming as we sit there facing each other. And more is said in the words that are left unspoken.

He makes me supper and then cleans up. I know how much affection goes into those simple but meaningful actions. And then he asks me to join him in his study. “Room number three” I call it, in a home too large for a single occupant; yet each room seemingly captures a different side of his many moods.

He laughs.

We sit there comfortably, each of us doing our own thing, me curled up on the couch and him at his desk. Every few minutes one of us says something; but all in all, each one appreciating the beauty of our separate togetherness.

And then he sends me home and kisses me before I get into the car, even though a neighbor has come to spectate on the porch above us. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” he says to me quietly and we both laugh. “How do I translate that into Hebrew?” he asks.

I smile.

But those are just details because he loves me. I feel it.

And he told me so.

And I love him.

And yet, the saga continues because of so many reasons that exist in this world that can or might turn our love rotten. We don’t want our love to become what both of our first marriages became and what the marriage of almost every single divorced and married couple that we encounter around us has become.

We want our love to last and so I go home.

With eyes wide open despite the hour.