wait a minute mister postman

Kevin came last Sunday. He had a west coast layover and made it Seattle so we could see each other. It marked my sixth trip to the Seattle airport in three months. It marked the third time I’ve seen Kevin in my whole life. I kept scanning the faces as people stepped off the escalator, waiting for the smile or eyes or hair that I would recognize as him. It was instant. I saw half his profile, the tip of his nose, the outer most part of his big toe and knew it was him.

We chatted the whole bus ride into downtown. Shared business cards and movie reviews and talked about all things liquid and easy. It was like no time had passed. It was like we lived next door. We loaded up on Mexican food. He bought a superball. I showed him my office and the crazy beautiful hanging light that I always pause to look at through the spotless glass of the modern furniture store. Big round ball of pretty and wire. He liked it, too.

We stayed up late and I had a hard time not hitting snooze a dozen times when Monday reared it’s ugly head. It was off to work and then a quick lunch before good-bye. I hugged him lots before he got in the taxi. I always promise that I’ll visit him next and he always smiles knowing I mean it. He always visits next though. But this time I’m gonna try really hard to beat him at it. Walking back to work, waving to his cab, I felt pretty lucky for knowing him.

It’s funny how no time will pass. From the second we were standing at the airport waiting for his baggage from the time he left, we were comfortable and chatty. Kevin has been my pen pal since I was 14. I couldn’t even drive yet. My handwriting was big and round. It let me get just a few words per wide ruled line. I dotted my i’s with Cheerio sized circles and talked about wanting world peace and to be in a punk rock band. And still he wrote back to me! His handwriting was small and purposeful. He was working on fanzines and attending conferences and changing the world. He spelled things with extra u’s and sent me cool stuff like cool stickers and band flyers for all ages shows in Toronto. This was before e-mail. Each letter written on ruled paper. His usually yellow. Mine usually white. In pen. Carefully. We would go weeks between letters. Months sometimes. But I remember the days I’d get home from school and his letter would be waiting for me on the stairs. The third step up from the bottom. Leaning against the riser. Those were always good days.

Now we’re grown up, kinda. Sorta. Maybe. And have real jobs and worries and sometimes catch ourselves talking about the younger generation like we’re old. E-mail and phone calls have replaced letters. It’s easy and nice and he’s known me longer than anyone. Like a big brother. Like a good friend. He is still changing the world. I still wanna be in a punk rock band. Nice that some things never change.