He was 96 years old when he walked away from everything he ever knew. We searched and searched and searched for him, but we never found him. Didn't he want to be found? Didn't he want to come home? Home where everything was familiar and safe? Maybe he didn't want this anymore. Maybe he didn't want the same ole, same ole. Maybe what he wanted was out there waiting for him to find it.
I'd like to think that if I were him and I'd seen that many years go by, that I too would want to see something I hadn't seen before. I'd walk the dusty streets of somewhere else and see what I had missed, if anything. There wouldn't be a single face left unsearched, no flavored cigar left unsmoked, no harsh whiskey left untasted, no sweet lips left unkissed. I'd grab every morsel of life and with arthritic fingers, I'd squeeze like there wasn't a drop of tomorrow to be had.
Should I wait until the very end to wander off and wonder about? Should I trip on the uneven sidewalk of life only to find that I missed the inscription upon it, hardened with time?
Yours and my name is written there in concrete, crumbling with age...trace it with a loving finger and take my hand. Let's take a walk and lose ourselves, never to be found.