The old man walked alone into the graveyard next to the Church of Saint Joshua. It was a very pleasant September morning in Connecticut and he was wearing a lightweight blue jacket over his khaki slacks and short – sleeved white buttoned – down shirt. His grandchildren, they of the active wear generation, always wanted to know why he didn't wear comfortable clothing and sneakers. He would reply every time that he was comfortable; the walking shoes on his feet he wore to appease his daughter, who had insisted his lace up shoes simply couldn't be comfortable day in and day out. He would never admit it, but he did find them ridiculously comfortable and they had quickly become his favorite shoes to wear.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw that his son, who had insisted on driving him there, had cut the car off with the windows down and was engrossed in whatever he was looking at on his phone. Probably one of those infernal games he loves to play, he thought.
He walked towards a bench that was still in the shade and sat. He was facing a headstone that he had visited a few times over the last six years, but that a small part of him still refused to accept as reality. He looked around to make sure no one else was near and then began to speak.
"Hello, Napoleon. I know it's been a while since I've been to visit. April and I have been quite busy. We decided to accept our daughter's invitation to move with her and her family in Henderson, Nevada. It's beautiful there and neither one of us wants to spend another winter in the Northeast. The cold just gets into our joints so." He hunched his shoulders as if the thought of the cold alone could cause his joints to ache.
"You don't realize how much stuff you accumulate over the years until you have to go through it! We finally finished getting rid of everything we and the children didn't want. The house closes in a couple of weeks, and then, we'll be on our way." Illya smiled to himself. "I have begun to ramble on in my old age, Napoleon. Forgive me."
"I came to see you because today is my birthday. I, never once, thought I would live to be ninety years old! But here I am. And in reasonably good health, too!" He sighed deeply. "I miss you, Napoleon. Everyday. I cannot believe it's been six years since you left. Thank you again for including April's and my children in your will." He could feel his emotions threatening to overwhelm him and stopped speaking so he could get himself under control. Even so, when he began again, tears welled up and spilled onto his cheeks.
"I also came to say that this is my last time visiting you. April wanted to come, but she understood why I wanted to come alone. She knows what it means to have a partner and to have alone time with your partner. It breaks my heart that I will be on the other side of the country, but I know that I can speak to you wherever I am and that is a comfort. I love you, Napoleon. I hope, when it is finally my time, that I will be granted the opportunity by your God to see you again. Dasvidanya, moy brat."
The spirit of Napoleon Solo leaned against his tombstone and watched as his best friend in life and afterlife walked out of the cemetery and entered his son's car. He was no longer the white – haired, bespectacled old man he had been when he crossed over, but was again Napoleon Solo in his prime; thin, handsome and minus the scars he had earned in defense of freedom and democracy. I love you too, Illya. I know there is a part of you that feels a bit guilty being the surviving partner, but I'm so happy for you. I'm glad you've had six years more of life, love and joy. I want you to continue to live and thrive! And when it is your time, you will see me again. I asked and my prayer was answered. So, until I can hug you in person, feel this."
"Ummmm."
Illya's son glanced at his father as he drove. "What was that sound for, Dad?"
"I felt like I just got a hug."