“You might enjoy it if you went,” Sam’s wife, Mary, said.
“I don’t think so,” Sam said. “I think my class reunion would be the last thing I would enjoy.”
“I thought you liked going to my reunion.”
“I did, but there was no one I remembered as being younger.”
“Is it so awful that people age?”
“They can age all they want, but I don’t want to see the newer version of anyone I used to know: it reminds me that everything changes.”
“You need to be reminded of that?” Mary asked.
“I don’t mind stores closing or new people at work or any other change in my life now; but seeing the old version of people I knew in high school is like watching a reunion concert of a sixties band: the band might as well have a banner above the stage that reads, ‘Your youth is over and we all look like grandparents now.’”
“There’s nothing wrong with looking like grandparents.”
“I know. And I’m fine with us being older: I actually prefer it. But my memories should exist separate from who we are now.”
“Everything changes. You can’t put your past in amber like a perfectly preserved wooly mammoth.”
“I can if I don’t go to reunions.”
Mary stared for a moment at her husband. Despite his graying hair and pouchy stomach, Mary still saw the twenty-year-old she had met in college: she had never updated the earliest version of him that she knew. She smiled and smoothed back the hair that had fallen onto his forehead and said, “Your memories and woolly mammoths should both stay encased in amber.”