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Once in a while, once in a while I get wistful. Oddly for someone that can joke about having general contempt for humanity, I get wistful for people as much as places.

I don't know why, but I remember quirky little things. Like the odd little jog in the road on the way to Scott's house and the way it looked at a hurricane meandered by a few miles off the coast. Or the place that sold those great deep-fried pork chop sandwiches. Or the tire swing at the lake and Sam flipping off it into the blue-green high mountain lake.

I wonder if I could buy a plane ticket tomorrow morning, fly somewhere, and be at Tapp's in time for liter night. Would they still sell me a liter of Iron City for $4.50? I wonder if Mike would be throwing darts and if Renee would still know my name.

Then in my heart, I know they wouldn't be there. That the moment I remember never really existed like I remember, was never so perfect. I wonder if there's a clever little word in any language that succinctly describes sorrow for a thing that never was the way you remember it. I understand Platonic ideals, but it doesn't lessen the sorrow I feel.

Then I see an inbox full of notices that people have changed their phone numbers, and I remember that if I really want, I can reconnect with people.

Then there is joy but very little calling, for my wistfulness seldom lasts even as long as it took to type this entry.