Last modified: Sunday, October 7, 2007 12:45 AM EDT Jimmy, you'll always be the boy with beautiful eyes Now he's prefixed, Dr., doctorate. He's produced cartloads of books, won cartloads of awards. Nope, he didn't disclose. Too sweet. I Googled. Wait all those listings? Lord, man, you grabbed the gold ring. Hey, thanks for e-mailing. You're right, of course, I will skip our high school reunion this month. You always knew me well. Maybe next time. Like 2030. But I'll be thinking of you. As always. Imagining you, shrugging, shuffling into dance-floor Night Train on your handsome-as-hell 63-year-old feet. (I just know they are handsome). No one, absolutely no one, could dance like you could dance. No one since. Nope, since you're inquiring, I will not see you at the reunion, Jimmy. After small talk, vitae: One great kid. Grown up. Gone. Me: Wrinkles. Pounds. That's it, 45 years. That, work, bills. Hey, moving along, we're just 45, right? You can't mean it's been 45 years since we grabbed lunch, slammed lockers, raced for math. Some faces stick. Yours does. I see the boy in the man's portraits. Online. You're famous, I see, and people respect you. It's apparent in the testimonials. I'm entirely happy for you, and totally impressed. But then, I was when you were 18. Nobody but a kid with beautiful brown eyes. To me, you'll always be Jimmy. Jimmy the inquisitive, the kind. Everyone loved you. Me included. Class of 1962. What if? You wouldn't have your fantastic (I'm guessing, but how could they be anything but) sons. I wouldn't have the fantastic daughter. This, I'd never change. Not for all the world. Not even knowing what I know now. "You realize," someone once said, "that you must accept things for what they are, and what they have made you become." Yup. Big Girls Don't Cry. But sometimes, for a moment, they do. BETSY SHEA-TAYLOR, a former writer and editor for The Sun Chronicle, is a freelance writer.