2013-03-06 - 9:48 a.m.

What I'd really like to do is to get all my friends together, in one place, even the ones who have died. And we'd meet up at Matty T's cabin, up in the steep folds of Pennsylvania's coal country, the place he sold six years ago. There would be an endless supply of Yuengling, and he'd have a pot of something warm waiting for those of us coming up from Baltimore, and his fridge would be filled with heavy whipping cream for the coffee and stalks of celery for the bloody marys and dishes and dishes of sweet, salty, sauced-up things for our bellies.

We'd eat and drink and smoke and talk until we fell into our sleeping bags but, before that, we'd study the old high school map of the world, we'd listen to his Paul Simon and his Morphine and his Johnny Cash records, we'd throw the worn football until our hands ached, we'd study that Norman Rockwell coffee table book, like always.

It wouldn't be forever. Just one more weekend. And everyone would be there, and, upon walking through that crooked front door for the last time, we'd hug each other properly, and give each other the nicknames we'd always wanted to give, and that would be enough.

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