By Conor Burrell

Leaves crunch as I walk into Tommy’s back yard. I see him maybe twenty feet away sitting by the fire. Alone, tuning his old guitar, with a beer next to his chair. 

“Hey, man, how have you been?” I ask as I sit into the chair on the other side of the fire, the tall orange flames painting a faint glow around Tommy’s face. He looks up from his guitar and sets his gaze upon me. His face looks older than I remember, slight wrinkles around his brow and nose. Little grey spikes of hair have found a way into his beard.

He finally responds, “A lot has changed, Lou. I’m married, child’s on the way, and I’ve found a job that I don’t absolutely hate.” 

I smile. “That’s amazing Tommy. I’m still finding my way, still trying to find somebody.”

“You’ll find them, don’t you worry,” he responds. Tommy turns back to his guitar and begins to strum that same beautiful fingerstyle tune that he always used to play. I close my eyes and lean back, letting the ever-encompassing warmth of the fire heat my feet. It had been years since I felt the warmth of a fire, or at least tried to feel it.

“Hey, Tommy, who are you talking to out there?” A woman’s voice calls from the back door of the house. I recognize the voice; it’s Tommy’s mother.

“Lou,” he says. 

I slowly get up to meet Tommy’s mother’s saddened face. Her eyes slightly glimmer for a moment. 

“Tell Lou I say hello, and that I miss him,” Tommy’s mother says softly, and then slowly closes their house’s back door. 

“I will…” Tommy responds. He turns to me and smiles. “You know I miss you a lot, Lou.”

I smile back at him. I miss him, too.