The sons of Jack and Marion

 

A couple of fellas I’d sort of known during high school and some what college. They were friends before I met them and they were friends in the spaces of unknown. They speak the same language. They remember the same history and have interweaved with each other through the years.

The son of Jack was introduced to me by an congregational member of the First Baptist Church. They were school mates who were joining the high school ROTC together. I knew no background or had any previous judgement of this person other than he seemed happy. I did not know he was living in a duplex with a single mom and three siblings. Our true connection was music. He played guitar and I was learning to play the guitar. We tended toward different genres of tunes, but enjoyed singing together through the years.

The son of Marion was in my high school homeroom. He was a friend of the son of Jack through middle school so a group of friends were starting to form. He lived within walking distance in a house, similar to mine, with a father, mother and younger sister. He was fashionably dressed and well mannered. We bonded over music. He was a poet and wrote good lyrics to my attempt to write songs. His family took me camping and to their family’s homes in the county, so I felt adopted.

The son of Marion left to go to an elite college while the son of Jack and I went to an inner-city institute. The three of us kept in contact with close proximity and illicit substances. Our families never met.

The sons of Jack and Marion participated in my first wedding. The son of Jack and I participated in the son of Marion’s wedding. The son of Marion and I attended the son of Jack’s wedding but did not participate.

Employment, houses, children and relocating made our encounters less frequent. Occasional get-to-gatherings were usual noisy chaos clouded in smoke and drink. Whatever meaningful conversations shared earlier in life were not gone. We grew apart.

I’ve tried to keep in contact with the sons of Jack and Marion through letters but the addresses kept changing. Digital media made connections but only a few face-to-face conversations.

The other day the three went to lunch. For an hour and a half, we sat at a familiar site and attempted to catch up. Unfortunately, at this age, our conversations are about family and illnesses. I bring some gifts and donate a 40-year-old t-shirt to the dining establishment, but have little to add to the topics discussed. We have a few laughs over 60-year-old subjects but only depressing news of today. We share no secrets or present surprises but are comfortable with each other.

There were no memorable take aways from the luncheon. As we part ways I ponder if this will be the last time?