Once More Into the Abyss by Dennis Danvers

 
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    I just changed, aged, got older, however you want to put it. Isn’t that how every story should begin? Even if the sucker’s in present tense, it got written and revised after what really happened—or was imagined to happen—hopelessly entangled—actually happened. Our present past is a reinvention, a reimagining of the facts. That’s not just old age. The boundary’s always been more than a little slippery. Still. The story you’re about to hear changed your narrator. Isn’t that the very definition of getting older—change? Of a story, for that matter. We change until we die and become other people’s memories, and of course they change too. Might as well get over yourself now. Once you’re dead, other people get to decide who you are. Why let them get started on that now?
    Getting older doesn’t just glide along, however, smooth and easy at a steady pace. It’s like a clogged-up little creek for many years, quiet and tranquil, same old trickle downstream, but when the hard rains come, then watch out, because then everything changes all at once, and washes your little world away.
    Don’t mean to sound grim. It’s just the way it is. I’m the happiest, luckiest, happy-go-luckiest guy I know. Everything is perfect. Everything, as it always does, is happening now:
    *   *   *
    Katyana and I are sleeping in, or trying to. We’re both early risers and would rather be up and out enjoying what looks to be, through the window, a beautiful day. We can hear Dylan in the kitchen laboring furiously to make us breakfast in bed before we have the bad taste to get out of it, so naturally we stay, trade nostalgic memories about him, about us. It’s our anniversary. What started out as a marriage of convenience, I believe it’s called, has turned out to be quite wonderful for all three of us. Dylan’s twelve. I’m seventy-nine. That’s coming up on 2.5 billion seconds. Time flies when you’re having a good time. Katyana’s lived a mere 1.4 billion seconds or so, but she’s wise beyond her moments. We’re holding hands. We do that a lot. Mine are leathery and old, a rainbow of liver spots arcing from pinkie to thumb, hers tattooed and still graceful looking like a beautiful tropical bird.
    We squeeze and release when we hear Dylan trudging up the stairs, freeing our hands to make a fuss. He totters in with a huge tray heaped with food. Anticipating this, Katyana and I have cleared a space for a landing on top of the dresser, usually covered in random crap and piles of change. We’re not the tidiest couple, but we’re happy. He sets down the heavy tray with a cringe-making clatter, and we shriek with delight for the feast our wonderful son lays before us, applaud his presentation, the aromas, his thoughtfulness.
    He serves us a spicy tofu scramble with lime-cilantro-mango salsa and fresh tortillas, zucchini muffins, grapefruit slices, and lots of hot coffee—this is my kid we’re talking about. He’s the best cook in the house, twelve-year-old earnest. The food radiates love. We dig in. I’m snuffly—from the salsa, or from the moment, I can’t say—but everything is perfect.
    When people say I love God , this is how they feel.
    Then Katyana’s phone bleats, and she says she has to take it, leaps out of bed and takes the call in the master bath.
    Dylan’s as surprised as I am. What’s so important to interrupt our good time? We’re a spoiled pair. She likes to spoil us—that’s our story anyway. We listen intently. The bathroom amplifies everything but muddies it up too. It’s her excited voice, but restrained a little. She’s speaking up even though she’s standing in the bathroom staring into the shower. A lot’s riding on this call. We can tell that much. Dylan and I trade a look. Neither of us has a clue. You can’t make out