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  • We sit and laugh and look up things like "Pictures of My Colon" on our smart phones. We sip scotch and wish we had some cigars while we talk like our grandparents and laugh about being old men.

    The house is cold. Lincoln has let the wood stove burn out while his wife is in Europe and his kids are with their grandmother. But with slippers on our feet and scotch in our glasses we feel warm, and the lonely house feels friendly.

    For two hours we forget who we are individually and celebrate our collective personality. We are pirates in the belly of a ship, plotting our next great adventure, cursing and calling each other "matey." The scotch runs out. We pour another. We are philosophers at the pinnacle of life, discussing the price of gas and critiquing republicans. The scotch runs out. We pour another. We are three friends at home, pretending we are not separated by time and space and we simply live in the present.

    The scotch runs out. It's 10:00, the hour when reality strikes. Lincoln has to be to work in the morning, I have to drive back to Ithaca early, and Lynn has homework. We hug and say, "See you in a few months."

    No matter where I am, I know these are my friends. They will be there when I leave. They will be there when I return. And there will always be scotch for us to share.
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