Dave

As I pulled my arm back from giving him a big hug, my wrist brushed against the hard and unyielding metal and plastic housing of his weapon. Tucked snugly against his back, a waistline holster holding it in place. For a split second I saw his face wondering if he’d need to explain. Or apologize. But I continued on as if it nothing had been revealed. Although his face betrayed nothing more I could tell he was relieved not to have to go through it all again and gently ask my indulgence. His face is pudgier now than the last time I saw him. So is mine. His presence in the room far more grounded than that last time too. He drags behind him, like his shadow, a palpable sadness. When I last saw him he’d just been accepted into the police academy. Now it is almost nine years later, and he was telling a tale about a drunk he’d not arrested under the bridge, a guy who couldn’t stop drinking. What a gift that he and I both had.