HUMOR
A Goodbye To Remember
When friends say goodbye mouth-to-mouth
I was 25. She was 47.
I was shaped like a man. A man receptacle keeping his shape by the mass of childishness he used for stuffing. She was tolerant.
We met in Maine at a writing program. Freeport, Maine, so close to the ocean, you could smell it always and fall in love with anything, even me.
By night, students slept alone and with each other and with their professors in a hotel by the sea. By day, we journeyed out onto a romantic little peninsula called Wolfe’s Neck.
At the peninsula’s end, there stood a magnificent house, huge and beautiful, a holy boil on God’s neck: The Stone House. A miracle mansion where we had our classes. It looks like this:
I wrote fiction. She wrote something almost as good: creative non-fiction.
When spending time with me, she used the creative side of her mind to pretty up the non-fiction that was me. This is the reason for her compliment:
“You know what you are?” she said.
