A breakfast joint, filled with smells of bacon and coffee. The sound of people, conversing. I was eating my eggs when I got the text.
I glanced at my phone and lost my appetite. An old friend died.
He was seventy-six. He used to be a singer. And I’ll never forget the story I heard about him.
Once, a nine-year-old girl from church asked him to sing for her dog’s funeral. He wore a necktie and the whole nine yards. He sang “Beulah Land.” That’s the kind of guy he was.
I was interrupted from my thoughts. It was another old friend who came through the doors. Lisa, a girl I grew up with.
I hugged her neck and asked how her father was doing.
Lisa smiled. “He’s okay, Mom hired a personal trainer to kick his butt, he whines about it.”
I’ll never forget her father. He once took me to a father-son church retreat at Blue Lake Methodist Camp, along with his own son. He
did this because I had no father and he didn’t want me to be left out.
I stood to leave the restaurant. That’s when I saw another friend. James is his name. James and I used to have a summer job together, parking cars. He’s a mess.
Back then, James would try to procure the phone number of any female unfortunate enough to make eye-contact with him.
I exited the restaurant and saw two more friends in the parking lot. Samantha and her husband, Wade.
We hugged. It was nice seeing them. We were once in a Sunday school class together.
Long ago, our class took a trip to Nashville. Wade brought a Mason jar full of something his Episcopalian uncle had brewed in a bathtub.
Consequently, Wade doesn’t remember much about that trip.
After saying goodbye, I drove across…