My wife and I visited our friend Andy today. As we do every year, we came bearing two gifts: a golf ball and a wee nip of scotch.
I push the ball into the ground in front of Andy’s grave, and my wife pours the scotch over his stone. (Andy was a Dewar’s guy, but we were out, so he got Glenfiddich instead.)
There is a little parking area under a big old tree right by Andy’s grave. But occupying that spot was a big old truck, and in that truck was the driver, taking a brief siesta, which we interrupted.
“Sorry about that.”
“No problem. Hey…aren’t you? You are! You look different!”
“Well, that’s because I don’t wear a tee shirt and shorts to work. I clean up well.”
“What are you doing?”
“That’s my golf partner there.”
(Looks at my wife.) “Nice to meet you. Play much?”
“No, not her. There!” (Pointing at the headstone.)
“Oh.” (He watches us perform the golf ball/scotch ritual.)
“That was nice.”
“We do it every year. See ya.”
“See you at 6.”
“Thanks. I’ll be wearing a suit.”