55 Years Ago, My High School Friends and I Promised to Meet at Our Lake What I Found There Changed Everything

Before I left Portugal, Nick handed me the pocketknife.

“Take it back,” he said.

“Where?”

He looked at me as if the answer were obvious.

“The bench.”

So yesterday morning, I returned to the lake alone.

I sat where four boys once sat and placed Nick’s knife against the faded initials we’d carved in 1970.

I didn’t cut new ones.

I only traced the old marks.

H. T. R. N.

They were still there.

So were we.