By Bobbie Glasheen

Rummaging in a drawer for stray M&Ms, I come across an envelope, splotched and stained with what I hope is coffee. Aha! It is addressed to me.

Carefully, even reverently, I draw the invitation from the envelope. The card stock is feathery and all but falls apart in my hands. This could be worth something to the right person.

Immediately, I see myself on “Antique Roadshow” but I dismiss the image when the appraiser mistakes me for the antique. I wonder if that happens often.

I sink slowly onto the bed with the envelope in my hand. I do that a lot lately. Lie down. Is there something wrong with me? Am I dying somewhere? Well, yes, I suppose I am. Of course, I am. I am old.

The invitation reads:

Dear Bobbie:

You are invited to a party that will run until the party goers falter. We will celebrate at this party. Just make sure that you are packed and ready to go when the festivities conclude.

When the chocolate runs out.

When the laughter has faded to a whimper.

When the party is over. RSVP.

This party, that I am now attending, is about to end. But I am not ready to leave. There are too many laughs yet to explode into the air. Too many breathtaking faces to behold. Too many arguments to be undertaken.

I want to stay yet awhile with Sweetcakes, my husband, and our noisy little dog, Mr. Weinerman. I am having just too good a time. Great party.

Inserting the invitation carefully into the envelope, I place it back in the drawer. Weinerman and I leave the room and close the door gently. We descend the stairs together, and he careens wildly down the steps. He is, after all, my Dachshund, a can-do dog in a can’t-do body.

He rolls the last few steps, tuchus over teakettle, and I laugh. I laugh some more.