My lovely wife met me at the door in lingerie Monday evening. The lights were dimmed. Candles lit in the background. Smooth jazz coming from the speakers.
We sat. We talked. We wept. We did not have sex.
Our oldest son, long gone from the nest, but a constant in our lives with his lovely wife and daughter, moved to Chicago the weekend before. We had helped them move. Helped in the breaking of our hearts.
For the last twenty months or so, come hell or high water, we had carved out one day a weekend to be with our granddaughter. Now that investment was going up in smoke. Gone. Like that.
We didn’t want to call it mourning. Our loved ones were very much alive and well. But that’s exactly what it felt like. Dead. Gone. And our sex life seemed to go with it.
Tuesday came. The wife met me at the gate with a mischievous smile, shed her clothes as she walked toward our pool, looked back over her shoulder longingly at me before diving in. We swam naked together for a good part of the evening.
Then we came in. She showed me videos the oldest had sent of our darling granddaughter. She looked melancholy, unsure of her new surroundings. Again we wept in each other’s arms, not knowing what to do.
Wednesday rolled around. Hump day. Except there was no humping today. Only a quiet padding about through our usual routine. We shared a smile, a pat, but that was all.
Thursday the same as Wednesday.
Friday. Date night. Met at the door in a new dress. A very short dress. A very revealing cleavage dress. Dear God, the wife is an incredibly hot and attractive woman.
We went to dinner. She told me how the mechanic at her oil change appointment blatantly stared at her cleavage while she was checking in. I explained that I would have done the same thing. “Baby, you are incredibly attractive. I don’t care how old you are.”
“Bullshit. I’m a grandmother.”
“A really hot grandmother.”
We didn’t have sex again that evening. Still wrapped up in the loss of time with our only granddaughter.
This weekend would be the first without her since her birth.
Since her birth.
Twenty months ago.
We had an adventure on Saturday. Went into town, into what others call a “gentrified” part of the city. What that means to me is that what was once a rough-as-hell, drug-infested part of town back in the day when I ventured daily into the city, was now housing well-meaning millennials that walked their dogs side-by-side with druggies.
It’s a weird dynamic.
Shithole houses next to new condos.
A re-imagining of sorts. That I can respect.
Anyway, back to the adventure that was yesterday. We went to a place called Six Feet Under. A seafood place on the cusp of Atlanta.
Our middle son, his pregnant wife, and our youngest son met us there. Five months away from the new arrival. Five months away from some sort of salve for these grandparent hearts.
The atmosphere was amazing. The waitstaff incredibly friendly. The parking manageable. The visit with our children very enjoyable. The food incredibly mediocre.
We came home. Laid out on floats in the pool and drank until the mosquitoes drove us in.
No, we didn’t have sex.
Now it’s Sunday. As I type away this morning predawn, waiting for the sun to rise so I can climb on my bike and ride 56 miles, or half the distance of an Ironman bike ride, I’m not really thinking about sex.
I’m thinking about missing my darling granddaughter.
Did I mention this is the first weekend we haven’t been with her in her 20-month existence?
It’s a big deal. For her Mimi. For her Poppy.
Enough to completely upset the apple cart this week. This weekend.
So, it’s time to wrap this up and go get on a bike for a long slog. Then there’s grass to mow. Then there’s miles to put under these jogging shoes. Maybe a relaxing afternoon in the pool this afternoon. A steak to grill. Some wine to sip.
Will there be sex later?
Who gives a shit.
I miss my darling little Millie.
And so does her Mimi.