The Reunion

I was riding up the winding road in the old tattered white and blue taxi. The clouds were thick and heavy and it had been consistently raining for two hours. My stomach was fluttered with nervousness and excitement at the same time. I closed my eyes and tried to recall the last time I saw him. I could remember the circumstances and place but time had faded away the details.

We pulled up to the hospice center at which he worked. It was dim and grey and alone on top of the hill. I paid the driver his expensive fare, and tipped him kindly for the quiet ride. Some days I feel like people never stop talking. Today was not one of those days. I walked up to the front door of the center and paused in the rain for a moment before entering. Why exactly was I here? I had traveled over a thousand miles to see him, but why? I pulled open the door before my thoughts over-cluttered my mind.


I saw him right away. He was helping an elderly man out of a large rocking chair. His body was much broader, and his stature much taller than the last time I saw him, when we were fifteen. He had tattoos on his arms and his hair was long. My stomach twisted in knots, and then he saw me. He looked me directly in the eyes and smiled. His smile light and unsure. It was his same smile. He continued helping the man into a wheel chair and pushed him down the hall way. He walked back down the hallway and put his arms around me. Despite his clammy hands, his embrace was warm and satisfying. He mentioned a few things he had to finish up real quick, and vanished back down the hall way. 


I walked around the sitting room and made my way towards the coffee table. There were old gardening and family magazines spread all over the table along with a few books. There was Huck Finn, To Kill a Mockingbird, A couple books so old that the titles were worn off, a Bible, and two identical books in a red basic cover. I rolled one of the red books over in my hands, feeling the texture of the cardboard binding. I opened the cover to see the author. It was him. He had written a book. He had written a book?? My heart started beating a hundred miles a minute. I wildly thumbed through the pages desperate to know what he had written about. What could he have written about?? I wondered for a brief moment if he had mentioned me, but I knew our time together was too short to be significant enough for a novel. 

"He mentioned you, ya know" A soft voice from the back of the room spoke.


I froze, captured by the irony in her statement and the familiarity in her voice. I looked up to see her frail body swallowed by a cotton nightgown. Her hair as short as ever, wirey and gray. She was smoking a cigarette which I was sure was not allowed.
His mother. 
She was living in the home. No wonder he worked there. 


"No matter the time in his life, he always found a way to bring you into conversation. And when he was quiet, I know he was thinking of you" she spoke again. I noticed how cracked and harsh her voice had become. I tried to count the years since I had last seen her. 


"What is it about?" I asked still caressing the cover of the book. 


"His trials." She said looking away. "I couldn't always be there for him. He had some rough times." 


I flipped to the middle of the book and read. The words were dark and frail, yet familiar. He wrote of death, and deep thoughts, and times he thought he wouldn't survive. I flipped though more pages and found segments of letters I had written him. Letters that he held on to through the tough times. Was this why I was here?


"His trials" I whispered to myself. His trials that I wasn't there for. His trials that I knew nothing about. I thought of all the lost time between now and our last reunion. I thought of all the things that happened in my average to up-beat life since I last saw him. I thought of all the horrible things he could have went through alone.


He walked around the corner and saw me holding his book. My eyes instantly welled up with tears. He ran to me and put his arm around my shoulder.

"Are you angry at me?" he asked in his light insecure voice. 


It took me a minute before I could answer. Swallowing the hurt, and tears felt impossible. 


"No" I finally mumbled. "I'm proud of you".


We spent the rest of the evening talking and reading together. Many tears were shed in that poorly lit hospice family room. I was amazed at how, after years apart, we fell right back into our old routines. Like we just saw each other last week, and the previous weeks of our entire lives. I wondered what our lives would be like if he never left. 
And the wonder would always remain. 

8.13.11