The Visit

He came to me in a dream last night, much unexpected, looking just as he had twenty years ago, that same grin, that same tilt of his head. I was in a crowd, moving toward baggage claim, and suddenly, there he was, walking toward me. I looked into his eyes, still startled to see him after such a long time. "Wellll, hello there," he said in that familiar voice with its hint of southern syrup. I remembered the last thing he had said to me before he left was that our story was not over. I had believed him, counted on him, and waited until I finally had to let him go. Now I ran to him, embraced him tightly, telling him how much I had missed him, how much I still loved him, and that not a day had gone by that I had not longed for him. He did not say, as he always had before, that our story wasn't over. He only said it's so good to see you, but people are waiting. I'll call soon.
As I stood there in that dream watching him go, I knew he would not call. In reality, we are now old. Too much time has passed, and there isn't much story left to live or tell. When I awoke, I was again alone with the silence and my longing, but truly joyful that I had seen him and held him again, if only for a moment and if only in my dream.