"One of life’s small sad facts is there are people we no longer see who nevertheless gave us some of our best or most important experiences; but they don’t know it and never will. That’s because we didn’t know it ourselves until much later, looking back. She thought about the summer in Greece almost thirty years before when they were together and flew from island to island on cheap rattle’y propeller planes whenever they felt like it. They stayed in ten dollar rooms with the toilet outside down the hall. They read wilted, water-stained books while sitting next to each other on the small balconies off the rooms. Or they sat silently together in complete peace while staring at the sea. No matter what kind of accomodations they rented, there always seemed to be a view of the sea. Every day they ate salads of tomatoes, olives, and thick chunks of chalk-white feta cheese drizzled in fresh olive oil for lunch. They rented a blue Vespa. They walked on black volcanic sand. He bought them baseball caps because the Greek sun was so intense. She was happy then and knew it. But her heart needed three decades more to understand just how happy she had been— Hall of Fame-happy, once in a lifetime-happy. By the time she came to that realization he was many years gone. One of her final wishes was that she could tell him, thank him for those days together. And if life were magical, which it is not, to sit together again in one of those outdoor tavernas at sunset watching the harbor, the boats, the stars coming out above them, their dinner being prepared, but most especially him."
