It was either: sitting in a hotel room in Wellington over a six-pack of craft beers; or in a bar in Melbourne trying to be cool; or at Seashore Cabaret between mouthfuls of burger nite… it doesn’t really matter, because memories can’t be trusted anyway.  But I want to believe that it was definitely Ben, and that the conversation had turned to forgotten arts.  Ben has kids, I have kids, his are older than mine, he’s farther down the path than me.  I accept his wisdom.  Ben was a guitarist in a band, he’s from South Australia, but moved to Melbourne to make it.  He gave up smoking.  Got a job in his brother’s technology company.  Has a house, a good-lady-Doctor-wife, and kids.  The guitars went into the attic.  About five years passed and Ben felt different.  So he climbed into the attic, got down a dusty guitar case and started noodling, like something was awake.  That’s how I want to remember Ben telling it.

I seek succour from from his tale.  When I see the dusty box of cameras in the spare bedroom wardrobe, or something seemingly innocuous sets off a sear of guilt.
“It’s ok, Ben, though”.
Tramping boots used only for gardening, lawns, brush-cutting.  Relegated from a life of wayfaring.
“What about Ben, though”.
Unfinished poem - Skylark: ‘You see from that vantage of a trilling speck on blue’.
“Ben was like, in a real band, though”.
A fitful sleep, dreamscapes of Northern Ireland explored on 50 year old pushbike - surely I’ve never been fitter, but now I’m aching, tossing in my sleep from an exhibition run on the kids’ slip and slide.
“Ben… though”.