Uncommon places

S. doesn’t spend much time looking back, although occasionally he tells wonderful stories about growing up in Los Angeles and the streetcar that ran down Santa Monica Boulevard and double features for 10¢. His approach is to find the humor in life. Which is a good thing, because I can meander into melancholy and get stuck there for a while if I’m not careful.

This afternoon he was over, teasing me about my crying. He had me laughing through tears at one point—the best kind of laughter. Besides, he said, in 50 years you’ll be 84 and your memory will be 84, too, implying that I won’t even remember him 50 years from now.

We ended the afternoon lying here looking through my brand-new copy of Stephen Shore’s Uncommon Places, a first for both of us. We talked about trips we want to take, places we’ve been or want to go.

I said, taking comfort from tragedy as seems to be my wont, “Besides, look at Alexandra Boulat—I could die before you, when I’m only 45 and then you would be the one forgetting me.”

“I wouldn’t forget,” he said.

But he told me that, 50 years from now, I’ll have forgotten this afternoon spent laughing and crying and looking at Uncommon Places.

I won’t forget.