My grandmother saw the first automobiles on the road. Heard, somehow, about the Wright Brothers. She knew former slaves and lived through two dreadful, dreadful world wars. She watched on TV a man walk on the moon and cried as President Kennedy's funeral procession was pulled down the avenue to St. Matthews Cathedral. She hugged Elvis and made him a fresh coconut cake. She lived through the Charleston, calypso and punk rock.
Suddenly my history seems to rival hers. I want desperately to bet it all on love but I have to admit that I'm beginning to wonder if the empathy gene is becoming an out of date, vestigial accessory.
That's okay. I've never been fashionable.
Here's to you, sweet people.