Farewell a friend

Task for December 15, Pack Horse Inn, Briggate, our first night in our new meeting place.  Great night.

A reflective piece
(One man’s reflection on the passing of his youth)

I’ve known young Max since he was just a lad. We shared some of the most wonderful, and the most horrible of times in our lives.

As time has passed, the stories we shared have become my reminiscences. I regret that I can no more join in the exhilaration of racing to our team’s victory, of riding those south coast waves, or of crashing terrified and unhurt from that mountain rally track.
It is now so many years later, and I am again sitting here alone with a pint of ale, in front of a Yorkshire fire which the publican has just stoked. I pause and watch the heat return into the embers, and as I watch I see the orange flames flick through the smoke and lick at the log. The heat on my face triggers a memory of an afternoon sun shining, there is a chase through summer grass in pursuit of giggling and fleet-footed temptress. A sigh vibrates my chest. It was such a long time ago this delight. The end of the chase on that summer afternoon was so illicit, it excites memories still fresh to this day.

I recall the tension and thrill of other adventures we shared. Even now I wonder about the victories we had in our travels and business, and of the toys and homes we owned. Indulging myself in memories like these is a sumptuous and glorious past time I probably spend far too much time doing but as I re-live them again I feel a lopsided grin growing across my face.

The flames have settled back in the hearth and I reflect on the length of time that has passed and how our exuberance waned. I accept that life took away the feeling that every attempt we made would end in a victory. I stare into my glass and I actually pine for that time when we had unending energy, for that confidence that we knew all the answers, and I long for that time when we were ignorant that our actions would let imperfections remorselessly creep into the body.

I still know young Max well, he continues to dream of all the possibilities. Regrettably he is no longer the man of infinite ability and unending optimism he once was.

Young Max has become a man I know less well. He is a thoughtful, considered man, made cautious by experiences both wonderful and horrible.

He is still a man with dreams of what can be, but he tempers them by what should be. He has a body less able and a mind more circumspect. Middle-aged Max is what I call him now, a bad joke he reluctantly shares. However there remains in him a defiant shaft of light and an energy which propels him and makes clear the ambition and the fun that was always present.

I buy myself another ale and realise that I have become concerned about young Max’s passing. As any good friend would be I guess.
Returning to my chair to be warmed by this fire I sip my final ale. Before I leave the pub to go home to my domestic contentment I wonder, will I feel as good about Middle-aged Max in thirty years time as I do now about his predecessor?

I hope so. 
Farewell young Max, I will always remember you fondly.


(for those of you who didn’t get it, Max is the narrator)