After the play I turn my phone back on, and there is the message: John is dead. My breath catches. Tears. Dear John.
A few months ago, Andrew, in England, asked me for John’s most recent phone number, as John wasn’t a person to use computers or have an e-mail address, plus he’d recently moved to California. Eight time zones apart, Andrew and John talked, and I was happy to hear about it, and we assumed John was in good shape.
He was not. And he didn’t mention it. It’s just the sort of thing he wouldn’t mention.
It’s possible, the way time goes, that I hadn’t spoken with him in two years. Is that the scary part of this post?
He would have turned eighty-one today.