To All the Friends We've Lost Before

Paolo watched the gondolas pass by in the canal, the sun beaming off the water's surface. On top of a wooden cane perched his gnarled hands, spotted from age and life and probably a bit too much drink. Laughter flitted over to him from the cafes, the people's version of birdsong making music for his ears. How he wished Henrietta could have sat with him here, the brisk spring day allowing them to soak up the sights and the warm sunlight. But it had already been four long years since his wife had breathed her last in a county hospital.

The old man didn't even flinch or move a muscle when another man sat to join him on the bench. No acknowledgement, no nod of greeting, just two men staring out at the scenic view that would have made younger men feel inspired and rejuvenated. Those days felt like another lifetime ago, too distant to be remembered clearly and truly.

"It's been a long time since we've been out here like this," the newcomer said, his hand curled around a rolled-up newspaper that he tapped in a rhythm against his leg. "Life just passing by, no rush. Those were the days, weren't they, Paolo?"

Paolo himself grunted. "When I was young, I couldn't wait to get older. Being a kid felt like the worst punishment in the world."

"We were so naïve," the other man murmured.

"I take it you've been to see Gordon then, Rich?"

The man—who honestly preferred being called "Richard" instead—shook his head, a mournful look on his face. "He's not fighting it anymore, if that's what you really want to know. The results weren't good. A few weeks, give or take."

The two fell into a quietness, a somber blanket that seemed at odds with the beautiful scenery in one of the most romantic cities in the world. Years ago, they might have brought their lovers here, anything to make the sparks dance in the ladies' eyes, and then fireworks would have burst in their chests when the time for lips to meet came at last. But that was so very long ago. Now the maids were buried or burned away, the kisses had turned cold and pale, and the idea of romance was a memory kept only for the loneliest of moments.

And of course the friends—the mates, the buddies, the would-be musketeers—were dropping away too. Last year had been Antonio, and the year before that Wesley, and before him there had been Dean, and too many others in so short a time. By the time the waters rose and eclipsed the roads again, there might not be any of them left at all. This city would continue with or without them; the men were expendable, maybe even replaceable, in the system of how growing old worked in this day and age.

Paolo rubbed at a spot on his cheek and then let out a drawn-out sigh that seemed to reverberate all the way from deep in his bones. "I'll never forget how that man could sing a tune," he said, voice soft rather than the harshness it usually could be. "Such a shame what he's had to go through. Gemma is probably beside herself."

"Good ol' Gordie," Richard said, shaking his head while his eyes gleamed behind his glasses. He took out a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed at his cheeks. "I'll never understand how the good ones always go first."

This time, Paolo barked out a laugh. "What does that say about us then?"

Richard's face lit with a faint smile. "Nothing very pleasing, I think."

"We've had a good time of things. And at least they'll have plenty of stories to tell at our funerals."

"Like that time you chased runaway goats through the streets?"

"At least I caught them in the end," Paolo said, offering a chipped-tooth grin. "What about the time you and Gordon stole the motorbike?"

"I would say that was all Gordon's doing, but I don't think they'd take my word over a dying man's."

The last few words sobered the humorous tone their conversation had taken. "Dying" was a word that sucked all the air out of the atmosphere and left a dread to trail afterward. "Dying" was a premonition that would be made true by a heart's slowing beats finally drawing to a silence. "Dying" was what no man wanted to be, but all of them were. There was no stopping such a force.

"I'll never understand it," Paolo said. "We've lived good lives, but we get greedy. We think we should have more time, always more time, until we're practically begging for the hourglass to stop."

There was a beat of quiet again, another stagnant breath.

"That was poetic," Richard said, "and I think that's why Gordon wants you to write his eulogy."

Paolo glanced to his friend as if to check whether the man was pulling his leg. "I haven't seen Gordon in months," Paolo said. "Why would he want me to talk at his funeral?"

Richard shrugged. "I suppose he understands that the greatest gift you're giving him is not seeing him when he's at his worst. You remember him before the cancer, before it sucked everything out of him. You won't write about the Gordon who was dying—but the Gordon who lived."

A hush fell over the two men again, and Richard had to look away because he was certain Paolo had begun to cry despite the man's best efforts to stay composed.

"Is that so," Paolo said, tightening his hold on his cane while still watching the gondolas gliding past. With each swipe of the poles into the water, his head bowed lower until his forehead touched his weathered, aged hands still holding the cane. Richard just continued to stare ahead, his paper still clenched in his hand, no motion left in his limbs.

There was no need for words after that because the silence spoke enough on its own.