There are times when I miss him

There are times when I miss him. Like now, as I write this, when I was doing
something else entirely different in a different country
and fifty years later I suddenly miss him.
I never know when I will miss him but I do.
I don’t need to tell you his name. He was tall and older and ruddy and red-haired and knew things I will never know, back from Vietnam. He came around in my life
when I was young. Then we drifted into other realms.
We kept in touch haphazardly.
This is not about romance. It is about the stellar time of friendship.
He pursued justice and married twice, two children.
He died at an age too early and I am now the elder.

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