My Dad's Pal

 

Every summer I've looked for the flag.

It flew outside Paul's beach house, and whenever I saw it, I knew my parents' old friend had returned from PA for another season across the street from the ocean.

This year I watched for it again.

Today it was finally there.

As we drove by, we saw a party in the yard and wondered how Paul was doing. We saw lots of people on the porch but I didn't see him and he usually sat in the big Adirondack chair in the middle of the porch. As we drove on I wondered if it was a memorial party. 

When I got home, I searched his name and found his obituary. 

He was 96.

Last summer I thought about inviting him to dinner. I hesitated, wondering if the stairs to our house would be difficult, and told myself we'd meet at a restaurant instead.

I never made the call.

Reading about Paul's death felt as if another chunk of my childhood was taken away. I remember the parties, the stories, his lovely wife, the drives to their house and the striped bass dinners we'd have. I remember comfort, laughter, and a feeling of home.

Today, I'm grateful for the memories—for the stories, the laughter, the meals, and for a friendship that became part of my own childhood.

And today, I spoke Paul's name. 

 Life has a way of reminding us that another summer is never promised.