You go back to the hill you grew up on,
And visit friends from years ago.
There is not much to say.
You take a walk.
You take it all in.
You go back in the house to get your jacket and you hear your friend singing an old Kris Kristofferson tune.
The same one he sang when you were twelve. The sound of the voice wraps around you like a comfort.
You know you are in the right place.
And you remember there was never much to say, and that was the pleasure of it.
That you are friends and not much needs to be said.
We go out for a fish dinner.
The restaurant has the same lemon squares and dates squares your mother made when company came.