After having known him for almost a decade, I finally visited his house. It was a few years still, before he died. It was many years after the fire had burned down the original house on his property, and he often spoke of what had been lost.

I wandered through the rooms, some of it exactly as I’d imagined it. But then in a room with letters addressed to The Waffle on the backs of opened envelopes clipped across strung lines as if in the airing out of laundry, on a shelf next to home videos and half empty box after box of cigars (or were they half full? I can’t quite remember now) I noticed that he’d kept — as souvenirs — his labeled, clear dixie cups from our parties.

On my phone, I’ve kept our long series of voice memos and text messages. They are more than souvenirs, but I don’t know — perhaps still don’t want to know — how else to label them.


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