Skipping Rocks

At the Top of Abbot Road, I found his grave. It was a lonely plot with no company to be found. Even the wilting trees and the withering landscape seemed to be turning their backs on him. The sole headstone on the acre was unmarked and for him. He had no visitors save for me--and I'm pretty sure that if he knew I had come that day, and if he was physically able, he would have rolled out of that grave, run to the front gates and shut them in my face.

He wasn't a people person. He was a loner and a man who found a deep sense of pride in his solitude. Though we had never met, I think I loved him all the more for that. Separated by decades and families and geography, the only thing we had in common was our disposition. And of course our accidents.

It was on Tuesday in the 67th year of my life that I realized I sure did look an awful lot like I did when I was 16. And I remembered him at that age--no, not remembered--saw--him at that age. We were the same, he and I. Unfortunate apparitions that sat in the dugout for two thirds of their Thanksgivings. We made a mistake, had an error in judgment, took a right instead of a left, and split--second, that is.

The idea that there were no accidents and the fallacy of borrowed time was swirling in my mind, taking over, asking me to prove her existence. And there, at the top of the hill, with a hand on the headstone, I tried to figure out the expiration date and why I couldn't shake the feeling that we were both dead on arrival.