sometimes i miss sitting against the wall and shooting the breeze with my friend

His name doesn't matter, he was childhood friend and we grew up
together, though we only saw each other from time to time. His family
moved when we were small and we would see each other over the years.

He called one time saying he was moving back from North Dakota, his
wife had left him and so he was bringing back two young girls, his
daughters with him. They were small and he did not have a car. He used
to walk all over the place with those two girls of his, taking care of
them and carrying them in his arms when they got tired. His life was
hard. I did not know he was having such a hard time, there was a job
open where I worked and he called about being late for an interview. I
picked up the phone and took his message. When he came in we remembered
the time when we were kids. He got the job and we became brothers.


I am not sure what you can say about Warriors, maybe there isn't much
to say about them, but I think we were like them. We struggled to make
a life for ourselves and as people sometimes do, you have good times
and bad. When things got rough we would lean on each other. At times we
used to crawl around on the floor after having gone through a few six
packs. There is something to be said about sitting on the floor with
your back against the wall and not saying anything. At times you just
sit and not talk but just sit there together. There was bond, I am not
sure what kind. We were knew about war, about youth lost, about
forgotten dreams and promises and about failure and hardship. We also
knew about trying to take hold of dreams and riding the good times
while they lasted. At times we would eat a simple lunch, and maybe go
fishing early in the morning and shared times with our children and
women too.


He spoke about a young lady he knew, from long ago, we were young men
then in Vietnam, he had a child there someplace and a girl he left
behind. He talked about her and wondered what happened to her. It was
things like this we shared. He knew a little about me, somethings not
even my family knew. It was like that with us.


Tonight I got to thinking about him, he was my friend. He worked late
one night, and a friend gave him a ride home. They never got home, they
found him in the morning having been thrown from a vehicle. His wife
called me and told me about it. When I got there she asked me to make
the arrangements to lay him to rest. I did that, and after he put
away, told her I would look after her and his kids. I see them every
once in a while. I can see she still cares for him, and has not bound
another.


I miss my friend, and the long silences we had while crawling around,
and then then the lunches and talking about our children, our wives and
a little about life. It is hard to find such a friend, they don't come
by every often. He used to come to my door sometimes late at night and
we used to talk about things. There isn't much to say about it now, but
there is a part of me that carries the smudges I put on myself when he
died. There is a wailing song, and at times like this I find myself
singing it and it carries its own voice. It comes from somewhere deep
inside that is restless and at times I think needs to find a place to
go late at night, when thoughts, ghosts and dreams come. It is hard to
find such good friends, and he was my brother, we were warriors once
and now our voices speak softly in the minds, hearts and hopes of our
children. I miss my old friend, and find myself singing that wailing
song and it is for times like this.


Sometimes I miss sitting against the wall shooting the breeze with a friend....