My mother, who's 90 years old, confesses, with some glee, that a naughty dream played lustfully in her head a few nights ago, something she's not yet gotten over. It seems that an old brother-in-law of hers appeared, as if out of nowhere, and wooed her, somewhat successfully. She didn't give me all the lurid details, but did admit (as I said, with some glee) that there was a significant bout of kissing, enough at least for her to divulge the delightful sweetness of her adulterous sin. "It was nice too," she told me. "I haven't been kissed like that in years."
My guess is only Calvinists confess their sins gleefully.
She claims that the others in the home laughed bountifully when she told them her story, but she still hasn't been able to get over it herself . She's hardly a harlot, after all. What's more, this particular brother-in-law has been gone for more than half a century; he died young, tragically. She claims she doesn't remember ever harboring any attraction to him whatsoever. It's not the kiss that stresses her, after all, that makes her confess all of this to just about anyone; it's the fact that her philandering mind didn't conjure a Clark Gable, but instead a particular, long-gone and much admired brother-in-law, then veered off the straight-and-narrow like some randy, drunken sailor.
And all of this--believe me--is confessed with some relish.
Methinks, there's no sermon here, just joy--and that ain't all bad when you're 90 and in the home. I loved it and gave her the absolution she wanted, not needed.
Mom, dream on.