Somebody will remember these
as the good years.

Listen to how people talk about the past. The years they name as the good ones were not, at the time, years anyone thought much of. They were tired. Money was short. The house needed work.

Somebody in your life is doing that now with the years you are in. A child who will one day describe this kitchen, this car, the way the evenings went, and mean it kindly. A friend who will say those were the days and be talking about a fortnight you cannot even place.

It is not a reason to enjoy tonight harder than you can. Ordinary time is ordinary while you are in it, and it is meant to be. Nobody manages to stand outside their own ordinary evening and admire it.

But the house as it is tonight — the noise of it, whoever is in it — is already somebody's good years. There is nothing to be done about that tonight. You are in them, which is the only way anybody ever is.