A cane…for this dear young man who was liked by everyone, to travel several feet, yards, not more. And now, look, he is emaciated, shuffling and not walking, dazed and furtive eyes looking nowhere seated on his now sunken wan face, the countenance of a question mark, and holding a cane. Michael, a small and an adorable kid, was one of my better friends in high school. “Love will keep us together…la.la.la,” his majesty the Captain and Tennille. The atmosphere is festive and the dialogue is singular to this genre of the event, while Lynrd Skynrd, Charlie Daniels, or Linda Ronstadt (when she was a size 2) is heard strumming through the speakers. Of course, it is music from yesteryear, the year we graduated. With booze and food and suits and ties and formal dresses for the ladies. We are schmoozing and boasting of all our accomplishments since we last met a decade prior, then in a classroom. We were twenty-eight years old, pretending to be adults, much like we do now. Oh, we were all so sophisticated, smart, fresh, and handsome folk. It was our ten-year reunion from high (secondary) school.
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