"What if this is our one chance to put things back the way they were supposed to be?"

"And what about us? We go on living our lives as if we've never met?"

"All the misery that we've been through, we'd just wipe it clean. Never happened."

"It was not all misery."
"Enough of it was."

You said hello.




In this vast Universe of ours it's often the smallest of things that carry the most meaning, the tiny details that, often overlooked, signify the vast difference between darkness and light. And for me, the tumult of everyday life is often so violent and unremitting that it's easy to miss the things that fall into that space between.

I'd thought that after the Annual Conference was over, I'd be able to take my bows and kudos, retreat for a few days of relaxation, then return to work and find nothing but a clear calendar through winter. I'd have time to catch up with old friends, finally paint my new office, perhaps ponder the Christmas shopping.

Evidently, the Universe had other plans. Since my return from vacation it's been a whirlwind, with trips to literally every neighbor island, every underserved community in this state. Between now and Christmas I still have overnight trips to Hana, Lanai, and Hamakua to make. I've barely have time to read journals much less post in one, and find myself wondering if I'll ever remember all the little things that come and go, the things I don't take the time to record for posterity.

I look back on some of my journals and wonder to myself, What happened to that guy? Is he still in there, somewhere, simply biding time until the Universe's Next Big Thing? It's not that I'm unhappy, nor am I disaffected. It's just a burgeoning state of overwhelm, one which doesn't get you panicked but fills up the space and time leaving you so little of either to reflect, to ponder, and to dream.

And so it was that I found myself utterly exhausted after a trip to Molokai, the Friendly Isle, just over a week ago. I marveled all over again at the sleepy, country feel of the main town and its dusty, empty roads. In between meetings I wandered some tourist shops, absently fascinated by organic honeycombs sold whole, nectar still locked in the small hexagonal treasure chests of its makers. The shops were mostly vacant, with clerks passing time by idly chatting with you throughout your entire store experience. It wasn't desperate or lonely talk, just friendly in the extreme. I purchased some whole espresso beans (Mule strength), postcards, and a block of that honeycomb.

In the end I made my way to that speck of an airport near the center of the island, a commuter landing strip with barely a dozen flights each day and service that ends by seven. I didn't see you enter the security area, nor did I spy you near the gates. I was too busy talking to one of my colleagues about communication, pontificating about why people never seem to do it well enough to avoid conflict or disappointment.

I wonder now whether you'd hoped to avoid making any contact with me at all, having never healed those rifts in your mind and in your heart, conflicted still about whether to love me or hate me. Perhaps you were still struggling to reconcile those nights of passion and warmth and honey toast with the anger and tears and deception of those final days.

Or, perhaps, you already knew that a part of you would always vibrate in sync with me, a part of you that was submerged for so long, for over five years now, floating inside you, an embryo of what might have been.

I boarded early, taking my seat near the window and gazing out at the turboprop. I was still talking about communication and about dynamic change when I looked up, into the aisle, and caught a glimpse of your hair, still wispy and highlighted. I recognized your companion, too, and was not surprised that she walked by silently, nose in the air, her face a fixture of contempt. She, too, would have many reasons to hate me, none of which would be valid or justified but, then again, when have shrews ever been rational?

I could understand clearly when she said nothing, telling me more in silence than a perfunctory nod or smile ever could.

But you.

I watched you glance at me and blush, realizing that I'd been looking at you. Your eyes narrowed as you smiled, softly, then raised your hand to greet me. I pretended to be surprised and smiled back, noting after that you'd taken a seat behind me.

The flight was quiet and unremarkable, as one would hope all puddle jumps are. I heard you talking, for a moment, about the Big Island, but then you fell silent. I didn't delay my exit from the aircraft, nor did I bother to look back to bid you adieu. We'd already done that once in this lifetime, long ago when I had to wonder whether you'd erase me from memory and hold only anger in your heart.

Now, though, I no longer had to wait or wonder. I had my answer.

You love me, and hate me, all at the same time. But there is just enough there to keep you from pretending, unlike the others. After all, you still said hello.

Even after our goodbye.

There are taiko drums below me.

There are crowds and humidity, lights and commotion. Distraction and chaos, everywhere.

Yet, inside, there is an emptiness, a stillness in this room as I gaze up at you, through the camera at first and then, closer, intimately, through my telescope.

You are torn; half scarred, half pure, one side radiant, the other cold. I want to be away from these lights, this noise. I want to be closer to you. I watch you all the time, watch you appear like an angel and then, like hope, you float out of my life, disappearing when I need you most.

Like the ocean, you bring me peace. Little wonder, then, that you are so connected to me. You are bound to the ocean, too. You draw it in, you push it away, a seduction without end.

It's different with me. You keep drawing me in, pulling me closer, shining that beautiful blue light, making everything around me, the chaos and the noise, all of it invisible.

But the strings that connect us, they remain strong and vibrant, shining in this cloudless night. The passion between us travels on moonbeams and enters me every month, every night, just like this. Close enough to feel, too far to touch.

Tonight, again, there are taiko drums within me.

I'm standing outside the restaurant, arms folded in front of my chest, back straight, head tilted as if I'm watching something in the sky. My tie is undulating in the breeze, a reasonable facsimile, I suppose, for a cape.

I'm standing there deliberately of course, in a spot where she can see me but also so I can bathe in the dappled day filtering through the trees. I hear my name, muffled against the whispered wind, and I turn to see her, all smiles and prim in a cream skirt suit, hair pressed back, her lips full and burgundy.

We hug, briefly, and she asks if I've been waiting long.

"No, just a few minutes," I lie, like I always do when someone asks that question. Why compound their guilt over something trivial, like keeping me waiting, or confirm their presumption that I am, if anything, obsessively over prepared, even for the simplest of things.

The restaurant is quiet and spare, odd for a lunch hour, and we're seated off near a small group of office girls. Our waiter Dean is clean, fresh-faced, and devilishly charming. He flirts with both of us shamelessly.

She trusts my menu instincts, smiling broadly as everything I suggest is given Dean's breathy endorsement. "That is my absolute favorite," he says, repeatedly. We learn, later, from one of the stunning girls in black who roam the restaurant that this is all of Dean's second week. Expertise, evidently, is acquired rapidly here.

We chat amiably for two hours, through four courses and dessert. I ask a lot of seemingly small, innocuous questions. Her answers reveal so many things I hadn't heard in the years since we last spoke. The level of change that's come over that part of the world is at once stunning and comforting. Though many have remained, a handful of my stalwarts have moved on, like effervescence, bubbling to the surface and disappearing one after another.

I keep the conversation on her, her new house in the hills, and all the old gang. She tries very hard to be perfect, to deliver on cue like she always has for me, to be the good little girl. I recognize, then, that though we were never lovers, nor friends in any conventional sense, my affection and my attention are what she's there for.

When prompted by her curiosity about my new life and where six years went, my responses are brief, and rehearsed, and sound almost too good to be true. It is, in fact, a good life now. I've found faith in the Universe and reason as my guide. I take her flattery as I always have, eyes downcast, that aw shucks half grin.

We part much as we found each other, a brief hug, a light kiss on the cheek. For hours afterward I'm left wondering why I feel oddly comforted yet wistful. Toward nightfall I realize that I'm not nostalgic for those times or the heady days we shared, but for the people we both knew. Past midnight, after a snack of cold peaches, I find her email.

It was wonderful seeing you again and you look so great! Thank you for the wonderful meal, and the company was even better. Please keep in touch and don't forget we have Mandalay Bay planned for late July.

Like time, these friendships seem transient and gauzy, drifting on the wind innocently, swirling in a tempest, and disappearing briefly. Unlike in childhood, the familiarity of friends isn't kept by the nightly ritual of saying goodbye when the streetlights turn on. Our friendships now are strung together by electrons, with text messages and email, frittered random cellphone conversations in between the busyness of work and play and commitments and family. As we grow older, as our lives ripen and we go through feast and famine, we reach that event horizon and recognize that true, absolute friends, are so very hard to come by.

They just don't make them like that anymore.