On the way to St James you fell asleep and leaned towards me. An inch of space separated us —possibilism. When you weren’t asleep, you were the DJ providing the playlist. One of the songs was This Is the Day this is the day your life will surely change. On the tramp you walked so bloody fast in your blue Macpac jumper frizzy hair long legs —maybe it was the caffeine pills. I felt a need to keep up with you. I walked like a man on the run except I was running towards something I think it was your sense of humour that broke through to me. I remember I was rambling on about the stars. Some people respond with a state of wonder, others with fear —and you said “What about a state of indifference?” And shot me a bright look. I couldn’t sleep that night. I was seeing colours. In the morning, I offered you coffee. There were wild horses at Anne Hut. “See you on the ferry,” you said and I did see you on the ferry and we stayed up all hours despite post-tramp exhaustion playing cards, grinning like thieves. I didn’t ever want that ferry to reach the shore. Maybe it’s too late now but every time I see you, you say “Good to see you. Good to see you.” And I remember St James.
Featured photo by Vladimir Vujeva on Unsplash.
