Spring

As I walked past a sandstone bungalow in the incomparable light of spring, I thought of a friend who had lived there.  A fig tree grew outside the front bedroom window, but he—my friend—would never see it again.  He’d died during the previous winter in another city, far, far from this place.  One day, I, too, would no longer be able to stand before this golden sandstone house, this fig tree.  The house would still stand, and perhaps the tree, the orange and purple wildflowers in the yard would return, the spring sun would bathe them in its incomparable light, but someone else would observe it all; someone who, in all likelihood, would know nothing of either me or my friend.