It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.
Ralph Waldo Emerson

When I was eighteen, I left my parents’ home in Cherry Hill, NJ and moved into a dorm in Sparkill, NY, on the campus of St. Thomas Aquinas College. I threw in my lot with the other sixty residents of the dorm, the blind leading the blind. We were teenagers, still waking from the dreams and nightmares of childhood. I transferred to SUNY Oneonta for my sophomore year but that one year at STAC made an impression on me that has grown more resonant with time.

We all went on to climb our hills and are now over the hill, on our way back down to our second childhood. We have children of our own, most of them are now at least as old as we were when we met.

Yesterday, we got together on the banks of the Hudson River, about four miles from STAC, as the crow flies. Memories flowed in and years flowed away. There is something uniquely satisfying to the soul about spending time with old friends.

Old friends, old friends
Sat on their park bench like bookends
A newspaper blown through the grass
Falls on the round toes
Of the high shoes of the old friends

Old friends, winter companions, the old men
Lost in their overcoats, waiting for the sunset
The sounds of the city sifting through trees
Settle like dust on the shoulders of the old friends

Can you imagine us years from today
Sharing a park bench quietly?
How terribly strange to be 70

Old friends, memory brushes the same years
Silently sharing the same fears

Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, A time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories; They're all that's left you