Here’s how I always pictured it:

I’m downtown, meeting someone for lunch or something at the Art Institute, and since I arrived early, I duck into a coffee shop for a little treat. As I reach for the door, it opens, and there you are. You’re holding a cup with a tea bag hanging out the top, and I remember, not for the first time, my disbelief that you never liked coffee. But all the same, there you are.

You look as surprised as I feel, and I surprise myself by smiling, saying hello. We shift awkwardly, still in the doorway. Oh, you say, Wow, it’s you. Hi. Your expression is hard to read. But I try anyway.

It’s me, I say. I need coffee, I admit. Do you have a minute? Want to join me?

You pull out your phone – still no watch, unhurriedly scrolling to a calendar, I assume – sure. You say, I guess I’ve got a sec.

We find a table in the corner, and I pop up to the counter to pick up my order and rejoin you, choosing the seat across from him, not beside. I gesture toward his cup.

“Still a tea drinker?” I ask the obvious question, hoping to come across as nice.

“Still an addict?” he teases a little sharply. How does that tone still get to me?

“Guilty.” I shrug, sipping my latte. We are quiet for a moment, and I begin wondering if I should have just acted like I didn’t see him and kept going by. But I feel him looking at me and turn my eyes to take in his face. It’s the same as I remember, older, a little tired.

We both are. He has less hair, and mine has more gray. But we are the same. And also now basically strangers.

He asks about my work, I ask about his. We trade phones and look at each other’s kids — about the same age. We observe how tall they are, bemoan the cost of food, pants, braces, college. Things old people talk about.

We are those old people now.

He asks about my family, I say I’m sorry to hear about his mother’s passing.

“She never completely forgave me when you left,” he admits. “She blamed me completely.”

I shrug again. “We were too young. Mistakes were made,” I admit, trying to deflect, not blame. Both things are true, we know.

He tells me a story about a mutual friend he recently ran into on a golf course, and as he tells it, his voice takes me back to when we were first together. How he’d make me laugh. How he had big ideas and dreams. Road trips. Other trips. Bad apartments and nicer apartments and then our apartment. His laugh and smile. When his hair was longer than mine, and oh, how his mother hated that long hair, but I sort of missed it when he finally cut it off. Nice holidays and sad holidays and then holidays apart. And then lives apart and moving on. Both of us have children with other people, unaware of each other’s day-to-day lives.

Until today.

He finishes his story and his tea, tipping his head back to get the last drops. He turns and looks me in the eyes.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” he said, smiling just the faintest bit, standing up.

Oh, but I have, I think. I’m not the same girl you married so long ago. The girl terrified of growing old alone, only to feel lonely in our couple-ship, despite her best efforts. But I forgive that girl’s many, many mistakes, as I’ve forgiven you for all your trespasses.

I stand up, too. I forgot how tall you are. You step toward me and hesitate – are we hugging? Yes, I guess we are, I think as your big arms wrap around me. I hug you back, your embrace and scent like muscle memory from decades past. Your whisper is barely audible in my ear, “Funny how things work out.”

I step away and nod, a small smile forming. “Yeah,” I manage, with a final shrug. “It really is.” Funny how love comes and goes like that.

You turn and look into my eyes for a moment longer, raising one hand into a little salute at your temple, your mouth a firm line. You turn to toss away your cup and catch the swinging door in the same motion, and you are gone.

I think the last time I heard your voice was on a voicemail message years ago, long deleted, that said, ‘Goodbye forever,’ and I thought it was, until today.

But this moment never happened. Could never happen now.

Because instead, I’m standing in my sunny kitchen on a beautiful fall day, reading your obituary on my phone.

I got the text this morning from a friend, and I had to see it for myself. It’s a lovely tribute, listing your sons and their mother, and my heart breaks for their loss.

I lost you years ago. The time for mourning what we had has come and gone. But part of me is crushed all over again.

From time to time, I’ve replayed many moments we shared, but today I let myself sink into you, into us, in happier times. I remember your mischievous smile. Your laugh. We were basically kids, so young, so stupid, so full of hope and promise. Walking around the city, holding hands, a little drunk, a little in love, feeling the immortality of youth.

Only that’s never true. We knew it then; I ache with the reality of it now. I stood there for a little longer than I meant to, holding my phone, holding the past.

Once upon a time, you gave me the Wildflowers CD as a birthday gift. I listened to the whole album today, and kept you close to me, one last time.

You belong among the wildflowers
You belong somewhere close to me
Far away from your trouble and worries
You belong somewhere you feel free

~ Tom Petty, Wildflowers