Receding

I played my Martin this morning. I have neglected guitar playing lately, despite the realization I made last month that when I died I would not wish I had done more push-ups, I would regret not playing my guitar more.

Yet I've kept my resolution to go to the gym every day this month. My priorities still need work.

When I play the Martin, it reminds me of playing for Jamie at the C.F. Martin & Co. factory's Pickin' Parlor in Bethlehem. Already our correspondence has grown increasingly infrequent and that saddens me more than I expected. Or maybe just more than I'd like. I've thought of her often since I came home and, as I wrote to her, "I'd love to figure a way to learn whether we'd enjoy each other's company as much as we seemed to when I visited even after the novelty of the reunion wore off."

This is unlikely, I understand. We live 1,100 miles apart. Both of us have things closer to occupy our attention. I've ramped up freelance work; she's dealing with job issues. My brother Jim is coming to visit soon; she lives near her sister and two nephews and spends a lot of time with them.

That's what happens. You see what's in front of you and the things a thousand miles away fall out of sight. And soon out of mind, perhaps, as the memories of our reunion recede in rearview until they're as distant as those from high school more than 20 years before.

But, hey, maybe there's a song in that somewhere I can work out next time I pick up the Martin.