Reacquainted

Two kids in a chair meant for one: I think that's what I remember. Hanging out in a room I can't quite recall. Dark paneling, maybe. What seemed like the first VCR ever. An old house, with narrow stairs. A Saturday, could be, or maybe the summer. A polo shirt with a turned-up collar-- yes, it was that many years.

His friend was my friend, so we knew each other, kinda. We knew each other well enough to electronically say, "Hey, Friend, remember?" then spend a few minutes catching up here lately. A quick glimpse is plenty, if that's all there is, but oh, those intervening years.

The center of this not-quite-trio is still in that same country town, the one where uptown is a place called Dairy Queen even though it isn't and downtown is the flag pole, turn around and cruise back. She lives down around the corner, I think, from the home that is fading from my memory, the one over next to the cemetery. I believe I still could find it. She has kids now, and Jesus, but in her notes she still sounds like the girl who hid joints in her room and took me to parties out in the fields.

And him, he's on his second or third real city, now two time zones away. He has what we'd have called a big job, a house, two dogs and a husband. None of that is a real surprise. He is so far away, in more than one sense. She is right there. I look for things in common between them, see two lives chosen. Satisfaction. I think those kids would be pleased.