Friar Lawrence, Mr Poe and the never ending circle of friendship

I was outside laying down moss treatment on my gutters and thought of you. I was moving aside cinder blocks and eradicating spiders and you came to mind again. I was in the basement fetching paint brushes and then stopped in the kitchen for some fruit tart and thought of that lovely couple I somehow managed to help put together who brought the tart and then thought of you once more. It's funny how it always comes back to you, no matter what the case may be. I could be in the kitchen stripping a chicken carcus, or emptying the trash or taking the laundry down to the basement, it doesn't matter. It's the endless circle of life, of activities, of sweet, exquisite mundaneness that has me always finding you again.


I sat with my friends the other night. They called and sort of invited themselves over, which was good as I was tired of working and more than tired of my own company. They brought sandwiches, that fruit tart I just mentioned as well as good tidings and for that I was pleased. We shared stories, of life and of their upcoming adventure..can you believe it, going to the ocean and they passed up an opportunity to take along some of my kites?...and then I told them, in somewhat truncated pieces, the saga of my life as it stands, of the house going up for sale, of the kids and their "working" visit, of the endless working party just to get this place ready to sell. I told them, too, of my travails, but then it came around as it always does back to you. Somehow in the telling of my stories, to certain people, to simpathetic ears, our story manages to surface, and for some it's always fine. Even brings tears to the eyes.


As for our story these days there's not too much to tell. It's an old tale by now to those in the know, and it is starting to sound somewhat like the stories that were played out by traveling theater troupes in the squares of old medieval villages. Our story is starting to sound like a cautionary tale, a story told to young lovers to help them see the error in their ways before they start down some primrose path. Our path was not lined with primroses, that is for sure. Dahlias, maybe, but this tale's caution is more about the afterword, about the effects of words and how important it is to safeguard them, to share them only with people that can be trusted. That evening I had an old friend who was once our mutual friend, one who ran with and safeguarded our words, and as she said about my writings, she was there for the backstory and knew all about it. She was more than happy to be a player in the tale, even one so long in the tooth.


I told her about my satchel posts, about the novel, about how the story will go. Believe it, M, it did bring tears to her eyes. I have to wonder when I will get that thing off the ground, but maybe I don't have to think too hard, as it already is. I also shared a bit of the story about that grey cast iron casserole and even wrote Friar Tuck about it afterwards, too. It's all part of the longer story, but of keen interest to those that have been active agents in the telling. That part was exciting, to have co-cospirators in the midst of my beleaguered house, old friends who knew us well, old pals who knew your story as much as I did. I did my heart good not only to break bread but to connect with the future and tie in the past.


Old friends. I know the value of those old pals as well as anyone. I guess that's where I went wrong this last year. I tried too hard to make new friends when I should know by now how hard it is just to maintain those friendships that are truly important. The Hot Dog King, that literary couple, Uncle Max..those friends, along with My Estranged One, are enough for the moment. But then again, there's you, my old friend, long estranged, too. Someday maybe you'll just be part of an old story, a figure who played large in my past, a real legend in my old days. But then the gods are funny. You might climb down from the pages of that novel yet and cross the floor for an autograph and a kiss. You can then say to people in line that you knew me when. And maybe, just maybe, when the pages of that book turn real, you'll want to know me again. Only one way to find out and that's to lay that pen to paper.


Your WHMB