RAYMUND FERNANDEZ
We are scattered all over the world now, friends from an earlier time. Once, we were rooted here; together, inside this particular corner of the planet, this city, this particular street, these rooms, this house, that table. And then, as time would have it, you outgrew your roots. I kept mine. It is not a sad thing. You know this. You have done well for yourself. I have not done badly. I am left behind, but comfortably so. And we had between us plenty of time to rehearse it, your act of moving, of going someplace else, in a way, to stretch wings, to fly. Someplace else was always there, just as here will always be here. And here is where we find ourselves from time to time around this time of year.
You are here only this long? There will be old ancestral places to visit, family to eat dinners with, a beach, another island… Time is always too short. But never too short to miss this cup of coffee, this beer, this wine and cheese, this one more evening to log between us. Over these, we ask the most inevitable: How are you? Even if the answer can only be: I am well. After that, the words flow more easily. It seems almost as if you have never left. We bring ourselves back to an earlier time when we were not this sure of ourselves, not yet this happy, not yet this old. We do not run out of things to say. There is an endless story between us now. It is a string of time from the last time we met and the here and now. It is time stretching into forever if we stretch it that way. I am thinner now, you say.
Yes. That and countless mysterious aches and pains. I was forewarned of that. But I’m okay. I do not eat as much as I used to. Doctor’s advise. You look well, aging beautifully, and still as I remember you. Oh, maybe not quite. But that thought never enters my mind. You are still as beautiful as ever before. And just as interesting… And there is still that look about you. You have changed. But not too much…
And I am happy for this. It validates an urge inside me to not change as much as to forget where I came from. And it is good to see how this place is also a shared memory between us. You also came from here. We were town-mates, practically. Possibly, distant cousins. Certainly, friends. And I do miss you as I miss those times. So what ever happened to this and that other town-mate? This and that other friend? Oh, he lives in Canada now. This other one, Singapore. This other one, Bolivia. Can you believe?
As I said, we are scattered all over the world now; who once, ages ago, worked projects together, did art, or wrote literature, did parallel play between each other from across office tables, and after that, spent Fridays and Saturdays around a table just like this; getting slightly drunk over beer, mojitos, gin or vodka. But it was the words between us, which were the most potent, One Hundred Proof. Words to make us heady from remembering. A story, here and there, about God and life, and what we believed of them.
Please tell me: Have you changed in that respect? I hope not. But if you have, that’s okay too. I have not changed much. Was I typical of one who would carry these things to the very end?
Oh, you have always known my politics. And yes, you also see how dreary and dangerous our worlds become. But that is less important than other things, less of value than other memories between us. And we have times still that have yet to be. When are you coming back? More often from hereon? Oh, good. Perhaps I shall visit you where you are one of these days.
You never know.
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