What I Remember

 

The college was up on a hill in California.  There was one spot on campus where you could sit on the ground, unseen by campus security, faculty or students.  The view from there was the entire valley.  It was peaceful and quite picturesque. 

I don’t really recall any professors, or specific subjects, nor do I remember much of what seemed so terribly important at the time.  What I do recall is sitting there with a friend and a bottle of whiskey.

We took turns taking a sip and talking about the future.  Our plans and our hopes and expectations of life.  Then we dug a small hole and buried what was left of the whiskey, saying if we ever returned, it would be there waiting for us.  We never did.

It was a fine time.  What I can’t remember is who the friend was.  At the time I thought it was a bond that would last forever.  We had created a moment, not likely to ever return.  So surely, we’d not forget. 

On my shelves today are a couple of old textbooks from back then, and I have a class ring that has survived the passing years, but what I remember from my education is that moment, two friends, knowing the time was quickly going by, sitting on the ground and in our own attempt at slowing it down, we looked out over the valley and made our plans for the future and sipped, what I’m sure was not at all a smooth or expensive whiskey.  It’s what we could afford, which wasn’t much. 

After having written this I now recall who the friend was.  He, like the whiskey, has been buried for some time now.  The passage of time for him has finally stopped.  Like a bookmark, he is forever between those pages.  His memory is now a part of that time.

There was no ceremony as we buried the bottle, no words spoken over it, just a quiet closing of that chapter and we walked out into the light of the parking area.  I don’t even remember if we said good-bye or see you tomorrow.  I think we simply left for our respective homes.