“Life,” I tell you, isn’t that line they feed you about happy reunions. It’s about distance. You and me, we’re like those stars up there at opposite ends of the sky.”
You don’t say anything. You just light the lantern on the table between us. The lamplight reflects off the silver in your hair, leading me to reflect sadly that it must be having the same effect on my hair, too. What’s left of it. I hear myself asking about so-and-so and what’s-his-name, and if you’ve heard from either of them lately. You smile sadly and shake your head slowly. “Heart attack,” you say. “Prostate cancer.” We both sigh.
When I knocked on the door of your mountain cabin, I thought you looked a bit shocked. You live here year-round, now that you’re retired. I wonder, is it your job you’ve retired from, or the world? You got married after we last met up here together over twenty years ago, but I hear she’s married to someone else now. Of course, you still have the kids. Twin boys and a set of quads—three girls and a boy. The twins are here with you, but you’ve sent them to town to bring back pizza and more beer. Too bad. I had more to tell them about where I’ve been, but maybe you figure they’re too young to hear stories like that. Too young or too old. They might get ideas about setting off on dangerous adventures of their own.
Meanwhile we’ve almost finished off the beer you had on hand, a six-pack apiece, the empties scattered at our feet. “Meeting up with you is an occasion!” you say. “Here’s to you!” And you knock another one back. But even half a dozen beers isn’t enough to make me drunk. I look at you, notice the look in your eyes as you look back at me. There’s envy there, and love, but who knows if it’s for the me that was or the me that’s sitting here now? In any case, tomorrow I’m off again, to the other side of the world. I lift the last of my beer in your direction. “Here’s to you, Webber.”