Here I am, in the mountains, sort of, once again looking through someone else’s window at the view. I’m on the couch, reading, and through the screen, here is the beautiful vista I see . . .
I’ve been here five hours and I’ve already finished one book and cleaned up one pile of doggie vomit. In the brief twelve hours I spent at my actual home last night, I shoved a new bag full of books I might get the urge to read while I was here, and having finished this a.m.’s book, went through the pile to determine if one of them should be next in line – and from one through which I flipped, fell this –
It was a note which was given me once with a bag of Christmas gifts. I don’t know if the holes burnt in it were meant as a commentary on the nickname he’d given me: “Char-Char” – or, just decoration as salute to our mutual smoking habit. I don’t even remember considering what they meant. The holes. Burnt into the note. They just were. I read the note today, this morning, again, having not seen it in a few years, nor, him, in a few years, and this line: “I look forward to many more holidays and events in our future because our friendship is eternal. I love you very much, but you know that.”
Funny, how things change and what eternal looks like. And how you learn to measure forever and the things you lose along the way.
Back to reading.