“It’s one of those clear, sharp blue days,” he told me once, in October. “The kind where everything looks like it’s been cut out with scissors. There’s one little cloud, way off, over the bank building. It looks like a sheep that gave up halfway.”
I laughed.
“That sounds lovely.”
“It is,” he said. Then, more quietly: “I wish you could see it.”
“Me too.”
“Someday,” he said.
He said it like a promise. Not a hope.
I told my best friend, Lydia, about him.
Lydia and I met in our first week of university. She was my assigned peer guide, a junior who was supposed to show me around campus for two days. Instead, she showed me where all the good coffee was, introduced me to everyone she knew, and told me I had terrible taste in music. We’d been best friends ever since.
“Your eye doctor?” she said.
