The wind whistles over the plain, bending the tall grass and flapping a torn curtain through one of the broken windows. I steal a glance at my partner. No, partner no more, but still my friend, and I looked I didn't steal. It's been a long time since we've stolen anything – maybe not as long as some folks think, but long enough.
How far we've come, I muse, away from this building, this home for boys. Home. Yes, it was one for a few years. One of the many homes we've had in our lives. But we were never really at home here, though Lord knows they did their best. We were possessed by the devil they said. They were right in that, and I suspect they were as happy to have us leave as we were to leave.
A sound next to me draws my attention – a sigh. We look at each other and back at the building. It's a burned out shell now – first a home for boys, then a junior college, now a ruin. I guess we've stood the test of time better. I may be bent, but I can walk on my own and am of sound mind. My partner, friend, still stands tall, a shock of hair – now white – covering his head, his eyes dimmed but still watching, assessing the area for danger.
By silent agreement we step through the gate to get closer, sheltering in the shadow, protected from the sun. He walks with a limp these days. Old injuries coming back to haunt us, like my twisted back. War wounds we call them. "What war was that Daddy, Uncle?" they'd ask. We laughed at their guesses but never told them the truth – not that truth. Molly would distract them. But Molly's gone now; the children are grown and it's the two of us again – partners, friends.
"Hey, Mister, hey. You about ready to go? My meter's running, and it's getting dark."
We glance back at the cabby, leaning on his horseless carriage. I remember when we saw our first one, we laughed out loud sure it could never replace a horse. But now, now we even drive them ourselves – or we did when we were younger. So many things have changed, telegraph, telephone, automobiles; some fool even flew an aero plane across the Atlantic Ocean all by himself just the other day. Imagine. But other things stay the same. People don't change. I guess there will always be some good and some bad in all of us.
The cabby opens his mouth to call again, but I forestall him. "We're coming. We're done here, aren't we, partner?" Together my friend and I walk down the path one more time that we walked down so many times before, before everything changed and nothing changed.
