And perfect, bright, cold nights like this invariably make me think of the man I met in a garden long ago, where no one saw us speak or kiss.
A quiet, blue-eyed man. Self-contained and self-sufficient as a tree. Gone very far now, unreachable in this life and rarely thought of on the hubbub of the days.
But on mornings like this I remember him and the last time I saw him. I speak his name in the silence of my mind, in the silence between us and hope that he is well, wherever he may be.
Jack. Who often smiled and rarely spoke. Who loved fish and salamanders and me.