Yesterday we moved into the six year portion of our calendar. Six months of the year I am five years older than my husband, and then in one wonderful day, I become six years older. It matters. Five years is nothing, six years is longer than high school, longer than college, six years means I was in first grade when he was born. He loves it. I love that he is graying at the temple.
Jack is old, at least in soul. He's been a 55 year old button up'd banker for 20 years. He loves v-neck sweaters and wool gabardine trousers, he is always tucked in and never, ever has schmuts on his shirt. His shoes are polished, usually laced; he rarely shows his toes.
Jack is old as I am young. He worries, I laugh, he festers, I sigh. Together we sing, although rarely the same song, a five year age difference quite noticeable in musical taste. He plans, I execute, he keeps me organized, I keep him silly.
Mary and Kate, not yet five, illustrate just how far apart we are, and how close we have become.