slipping my skin

I took my nephew and my son to the Green Day concert this week. It was the first big rock concert either of them had ever been to. Lights, fireworks, explosions, columns of shooting fire, an entire stadium filled with swirling confetti, loud music, several thousand people screaming and jumping and dancing along to one of their favorite bands. They were in heaven. And I was so totally loving the whole thing. One one level, I loved watching my son and my nephew become transformed by the whole big rock show experience. On another, I loved it for my very own reasons--because part of me loves loud rock and roll, loves screaming, dancing crowds, loves the excitement, loves being surrounded by young vibrance and energy. And there in the dark, I slipped out of my skin. I was eighteen again. I was. I felt it, completely. I forgot, just for an instant, that the kid standing next to me was my fifteen year old son. I forgot that when he looked at me, I was his forty something year old mother. How could I look like myself, I wondered, when I had shed 26 years? He turned to me at one point, and mouthed over the music--was I having a good time? Yes, I gleamed back him. I was having the time of my life.