I expected five decades to have erased a promise four teenagers made beside a lake. Instead, three boxes were waiting on our old bench, each with my name on it, and nothing inside them was what I expected.
I knew something was wrong before I reached our old bench.
I could see it through the trees, exactly where we’d left it 55 years ago.
Nobody was sitting there.
I’d prepared myself for that possibility. Three old friends scattered across three countries had plenty of reasons not to remember a promise we’d made at 17.
What I hadn’t prepared for were the three boxes waiting on the bench.
Each one had my name on it.
“HAROLD.”
I looked through the first box’s clear lid.
Inside was something I hadn’t seen since the summer of 1970.
A red fishing lure.
The bench was smaller than I remembered, its boards gray and weathered, but four initials were still carved into one end.
“H. T. R. N.”
I ran my thumb over them.
We had carved those initials there the night we graduated high school in 1970.
Tommy, Ray, Nick, and me.
That night, we’d sat beside the lake until nearly midnight, talking about everything we were going to do with our lives.
Tommy’s family was moving to Australia. Ray wanted to see Europe.
Nick swore he’d marry the first beautiful woman who laughed at his terrible jokes.
I wasn’t going anywhere. My father owned a hardware store in town and expected me to work beside him.
I’d talked about joining Tommy in Australia someday. My father always changed the subject.
Before we left the lake, Tommy made us promise something.
“Fifty-five years,” he said. “Same day. Same bench.”
Ray laughed.
“We’ll be 72.”
“Then bring your walking stick.”
We stacked our hands together like excited children.
Fifty-five years later, we’d come back.
At 17, none of us doubted we would.
For a while, we stayed close.
Tommy wrote from Australia. Ray sent letters from Germany. Nick eventually settled in Portugal.
Then the letters became less frequent.
Then they stopped.
I wrote too.
At first, I’d leave my letters on the hall table for my father to mail when he drove into town for the store. After a while, when nothing came back, I stopped giving him any.
