Silver

Silver bullets, silverware, silver bells. If I stop to think about my first impressions of silver, it’s the little things like werewolves, fine dining and Christmas music.

In reality, it’s still werewolves, but also tarnish on my grandmother’s heirlooms. and my childhood best friend’s greyhound that was neutered during the holidays. The dog’s name was Silver, and we sang Silver’s balls, silver’s balls, soon their won’t be any silver’s balls.

Apparently 25 years of marriage is celebrated as the Silver Anniversary. Fifty is Gold and 75 is Diamond. I propose they switch it around. Not for the value in the metals or the rock but for the difficulty in achievement.

You make it to 25 today, and you’ve survived Normandy, Khe Sanh and Midway. And that’s not because you’ve survived the person you’re with. You’ve probably survived because of the person you’re with.

I have.

Twenty five years is crazy in this methed-out mess of early 21st Century post-modern relationships. Twenty five is the new seventy five is all I’m saying.

Of course the moldy oldies would disagree, but their first 25 years were easy by comparison. I mean they had the summer of love.

But this is not to bash on those who’ve gone before us. You’ve all seen your own battles and victories. No disrespect.

I look at the landscape around us, and I see a lot of dead soldiers. Lifeless bodies moving through the losses of existence with a lot of anger, remorse and…