Ghosts

I'm 62 years old now and the thing about being 62 is that you're more aware of your ghosts than you were when you were younger.

Here's what I mean.

We just got back from a lovely weekend in St. George where (among other things) I listened to the sounds of boys playing basketball across the street.  And for a split second I thought they were MY boys, ballin' like Stalin with their dad and also my dad who always played with his elbows UP.

("I hate playing basketball against your dad," a kid in our ward told me when we were growing up.  "He steps on my toes whenever I go up for a shot.")

It took me a minute to remember that oh yeah.  Those boys showboating out there on the basketball court?  They belong to other mothers.  My boys and I, we're all living another life now.  Still, I'm grateful for the ghosts who sometimes show up and remind me of who we used to be.