Today will be sunny according to the weather, but nobody told the clouds. It is going to be hot, 80°. The air is so still nothing is moving. It is quiet.

I am watching the strangest movie, Monster from the Moon from 1953. A boy wearing a space helmet and shooting one of those metal ray guns meets some scientists. His sister, a scientist, comes to get him to take him back to their picnic where his mother and sister are. They take a nap after eating. When the boy wakes up, he is wearing different clothes, there are scenes of dinosaurs and the plot has changed. He runs back to the cave and sees the Ro-Man monster, a gorilla in a space hat, who speaks perfect English in a voice-over and is on Earth to kill. There are only nine survivors. The film was colorized. Two characters have purple arms right up to their elbows, and the rest have tinges of purple. My favorite line so far is from a male scientist, the beau of the sister, who says to her, “You’re so bossy you ought to be milked before you come home.” He then adds, “You are too beautiful to be smart or too smart to be beautiful.” They are now getting married. The father wishes them a fruitful life. I figure the monster and all are part of the boy’s nap dream. I need the silliness of this movie.

My parents were always the youngest parents. My mother had turned twenty just four days before I was born. My father, also twenty, was close to his twenty-first. My mother was involved. She was a Girl Scout leader, a camp counselor and a den mother. She worked at the Christmas fair. My father had little time as he worked long days. He was a salesman, and his territory was south of Boston. In my mind’s eye, I see him coming home in the dark. He was seldom home for supper. I remember my parents driving to Hull for a drill competition. I was thrilled they drove all that way. I still remember them smiling as they walked toward me to say hello before we competed. My mother wore a white skirt. My memory drawer has held on to that white skirt for over sixty years. I don’t remember the rest.

The heat is back, 79°. The nights, though, are pleasant, cool, down into the 60’s, even the high 50’s. The dogs stay close. Nala lies against me keeping us both warm, shades of winter.

My life is quiet. The biggest excitement was my TV remote arrived and with it my Twizzlers, but the Twizzlers are finished. I now have a yellowing dance card, brittle with age. My cozies have become a uniform of sorts. Only my uke gets me dressed and out of the house.

The only part of Sunday left over from my childhood is the quiet in my neighborhood. I don’t hear anything. The chores were yesterday, Saturday chores. The neighborhood was abuzz with lawn mowers, with kids playing and with dogs barking. Sunday is a reset.

When I was young, I wondered about getting old. What was it like? How would I feel? I now know. I guess I’m not really surprised. My head doesn’t know I’m old. My body, though, is a different story. I wonder about the old lady in the mirror with the wrinkles. My body struggles. I have trouble carrying heavy bags or boxes. I keep having to accept limitations, begrudgingly accept.

It has been a long time since I last went to a theater to see a movie, but I watch them all the time on TV. Lately I’ve been watching spy movies and thrillers, but if I find an old science fiction movie, I’m usually hooked. I pop some corn, put my feet up and settle in. I think I just planned my evening.