milesinvenice:
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“It’s hard to identify “the last time” until it happens, and even then. Ask anyone who’s loved a traveler, a man with restless feet and a restless soul. He’ll rip the heart from your chest and run with it to the far corners of the Earth; he’ll disappear in a city with no vowels and no running water, a city with no cell phone service. After months of silence you’ll come to terms with his absence; you’ll picture the last meal you ate together and convince yourself it was the last dinner, the last time. Years might pass; you’ll forget the details that separate fact from fiction, like the laugh lines and the grey hairs and just when you’re about to forget the way he likes his coffee, that’s when you see him again. Turning the corner or eating at a sidewalk café or standing behind you in line at the bank. Because travelers are like homing pigeons, returning to where it all began — even if they don’t return for you. The first time you see him again it’ll shock you, it’ll seem meaningful, serendipitous, but after the third or fourth or fifth time it will begin to register: the last time is elusive, it cannot be predicted.”
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