“. . . We talked a little about our bands, 

talked a little about our future plans. 

It’s not like we were best friends.” 

We spoke of Downie and Prine and Garcia, of Northern Alberta and Bobcaygeon, of Palo Alto and the Blue Water Bridge. We spoke of Oilers and Wolverines and Harrison, Mcguane and Stegner. We spoke of books and bikes and bad backs and procuring Bandol Rouge at discount prices. And we said anytime. 

“Anytime you’re up this way”. 

“Anytime you’re down.”

Anytime. 

Anytime. 

Anytime.

He spoke of the hidden costs of doing work you were driven to do, I spoke of the costs of not. We both spoke from experience.  We spoke of Zed and Deb, of Randy and Ben and Bill. We spoke of dead dogs and dying friends and of small streams and sandwiches and the importance of enjoying every one. And we said someday.

Someday on the Dean. Someday on the Crowsnest. Maybe someday, somewhere in Montana. 

We spoke of fish, almost always.

We never spoke of cancer.

” . . . the pigeons sagged the wire with their weight,

listening to the singing chambermaid,

she sang “They Checked Out An Hour Ago” . . .”

Dive in, dive in, dive in.

Don’t hang back.