I’ve lived in six different states, served twenty years in the military, and raised two sons who rarely call these days unless it’s Father’s Day or something in their house needs fixing. At 73, I walk with a cane and a slight limp, a souvenir from a knee injury I picked up back in ’84 during a training drill in Arizona. Every morning, I still make my own coffee and read the paper on the porch, following the same rhythm my father used to have. My life is full of quiet moments and loud memories.
I never forgot him, though. We met in school in 1961, back when life felt like an endless road and summers seemed like they’d never end. I was the loud and restless one, always tapping my foot or flicking paper balls at someone’s head. Michael was the opposite—quiet, thoughtful, the kind of boy who lined up his pencils and never forgot his homework. We were desk mates from the very first day. “You got a pencil?” I had asked, poking him. He handed one over without a single word. “I’m Robert. You can call me Bobby. Everybody does,” I told him. He just replied, “Michael.” I grinned and said, “Well, Mike, guess you’re stuck with me now.”
Somehow, we fit. After school, we’d walk home together, swinging our backpacks and throwing stones at street signs. When money was tight, Michael would split his apple in half and hand it over like it was nothing. “Your mom packs this?” I’d ask. “Yeah. She said I need something healthy,” he’d answer. I’d tell him she packed a mean apple, and he’d tease me that it was better than the chips I brought. “That’s not fair,” I’d argue. “Chips are a food group.” We whispered jokes during class and got separated by teachers more than once. “Mr. Stevens, Mr. Carter—front row, now,” Mr. Miller would shout. As we moved seats, I’d whisper, “Do you think they’ll ever give up?” and Michael would mutter, “They keep trying, so probably not.” We promised each other everything—that we’d be best men at our weddings and that nothing would ever break us apart.
But life doesn’t care about promises made by 13-year-old boys. In 1966, my father lost his job at the steel plant. Within a week, the whole Stevens family packed up for Oregon. There was no time for goodbyes. We had no phone, no email—just addresses scribbled on envelopes that were eventually lost or changed. Letters were sent, but they were never answered. And that was it.
Michael stayed in town and got a job fixing cars right out of high school. He married Linda, the girl from the diner, and had three kids. He built a life one oil change at a time. I went the other way, enlisting in the Army at 18 and serving in Germany, Texas, and Alaska. I married a nurse I met on base and raised two boys. Our lives were a blur of different towns, new jobs, and old scars. We buried our parents and watched the years stack up like winter coats, yet we both held on to something. Michael kept a photo from sixth grade of all of us standing crooked in front of a brick wall; there I was in the front row, tongue out just as the shutter clicked. And I never forgot the nickname he gave me: “Rooster.” I never told anyone else, but I still smiled every time I thought of it.
Then one Saturday, decades later, my granddaughter Ellie came to me with her phone, her voice shaking. “Grandpa, is this you?” I squinted at the screen and my heart jumped. “Yeah, that’s me,” I whispered. “And that’s Mike.” His grandson, Tyler, had posted the photo on an alumni group. One message became five, then a phone call. “I thought you’d forgotten,” Michael said quietly when he picked up. “I never did,” I replied, my voice cracking. We talked for two hours—laughter, tears, and long silences. “Let’s meet,” Michael finally said. “I’d like that,” I answered.
We chose a community center halfway between our homes. On the day, I arrived early, leaning on my cane with my heart thudding like I was 17 again. When Michael walked in, older, thinner, and grayer, something inside me twisted. “Mike?” I asked. He froze, staring at me. Our hands trembled and our eyes filled with tears as the room seemed to hold its breath. Then, slowly, he reached into his coat pocket. “I was hoping you’d still like these,” he said, his voice rough. He pulled out a red apple.
I laughed—a deep, full laugh that cracked the stillness. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You still remember that?” He smiled, stepping forward. “You think I forgot the kid who used to trade me chips for apple slices? I always thought I got the better deal.” I shook my head, laughing through the tears. “You always did. I just wanted to look generous.” We sat side by side on a bench, our shoulders brushing. He told me how he thought time had lied—that it didn’t feel like 58 years, but like he’d just blinked. I told him I still saw that scrawny kid with the serious face, and he said he still saw the messy hair and the loud laugh.
He told me about losing Linda five years ago to cancer, and how he couldn’t bring himself to leave their house. I told him about losing Margaret in 2017 to heart failure and how I couldn’t move in with my boys because of the memories. “So we’re two stubborn old men, stuck in our ways,” I said, and he chuckled. We shared updates about our kids and grandkids, realizing that despite the decades, a thread had run through every memory. We had never truly let go.
“I went to the river a few years ago,” Michael said. “The one we used to skip stones at.” I looked over quickly. “Still there?” He nodded. “Maybe we should go back. Take our grandkids. Show them how it’s done.” Michael raised an eyebrow. “You still know how to skip stones?” I grinned. “You bet I do. I’ve had 58 years to practice.”
We met the following week for coffee, then a walk. Now, it’s our ritual. Every Sunday at 10 a.m., we’re at the same table in the café. The waitress brings two black coffees without asking and asks if we’re keeping out of trouble. I wink and tell her, “No promises.” Michael recently brought a shoebox filled with old notes, schedules, and even a string friendship bracelet I’d made him. “You kept everything?” I asked, stunned. “I guess I always hoped,” he admitted.
Our families have met now—barbecues and birthdays. It’s like two separate trees realizing their roots were always intertwined. Time passed, but it didn’t win. Our friendship just waited beneath the noise. “Rooster,” Michael said to me the other morning, the name slipping out naturally. I looked up. “Haven’t heard that in a while.” He just smiled. “I figured it was time.” And he was right. It’s the simple things—a walk, a cup of coffee, and half an apple shared between friends—that prove some things are never truly lost.
