And that makes me sad. The stink of them lingers on my clothing, yet I only spent an hour or so at my parents house, working on Mom's computer again.
While there, I suddenly examined the air I was taking in, and it smelt of age, of lives gone stale. Oh, they are scrupulously clean, and have a maid and all, it's just an emanation they put out.
Age. It stinks.
They were both once such a beautiful, vibrant couple, barely eighteen years older than me. Growing up, my Dad and I were often mistaken for brothers as I got older.
Mom was a true beauty, from the Bettie Page mold. Vivien Leigh. Dad was a rake, and women begged him to impregnate them. He would come home with the latest tale of who had hit on him, and where, and how, and they would have a merry chuckle over it.
My Mom has a recent love note Dad wrote to her, taped to the wall at the side of her computer. In it, he sounds like a love-sick teenager. And they've been married as long as I have been alive, through thick and thin, and believe me, we had plenty of thin to go around.
And now the lights are dimming, one by one, deck by deck, as the ship of their life slides slowly under the waves of time.
I miss them already.