Saturday, May 4, 2013


They tended to find each other in lonely places: bus stations, airports at night, twenty-four hour cafes that served cup after cup of coffee. They would find each other and swap stories. The stories were always different, but always the same. They were stories of longing and loss and, of course, the search. The never ending search.

The one they lost might have been a husband or a wife, a son or daughter, or even just a good friend that disappeared. "They were there one day and then they were gone." That's how it went. That's how it always went.

They would go to the police and the police would find nothing. There would be nothing to find. No trace, no trail. Only empty spaces and apologies. They would cry and grieve.

And then the dream would come to them. The dream of their son or daughter, of their husband or wife, of their good friend, their face a portrait of sadness, of grief. And in the dream, they would say two words, just two words: "Find me."

And so they went off on their search. Bus tickets, plain trips, cars driven down lonely freeways. Their search would bring them to a hundred, a thousand different places, but they would never find the one they were looking for. So the search became never ending. They sold their houses; their new home was the space between here and there. Between now and forever.

After they swap stories in the lonely places, they would exchange pictures of their loved one, their lost one, imploring the other if they had seen them (nearly always getting a negative reply). After that, they would get up and go to the next place, on a plane or bus or simply on their own tired feet.

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