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it’s a dull grey saturday. just noon. thunder rumbling through the throw of clouds intermittently releasing a lightening bolt like some primordial metronome keeping time through centuries. the girls each have a pack for friends over. sitting in the darkness of their rooms cackling in the comfort that there are people who accept them for who they are  and who they are becoming. the frightening formation of identity keeping them all busy.we are reading in the dim darkness of the day, my wife and i. the quiet a gentle salve from the rock and roll energy of the previous night. i saw a photo of you with a group of masai men. you short one leg and still engaging warriors. we’ve passed the wanderlust baton for decades. i yearn to grab it and join you on that deck. the two of us approaching fifty. watching the trucks raise dust at dusk bootlegging khat to ethiopia- you’ll tell me for the millionth time, as if I don’t hang on your  very word. the stories we tell ourselves of ourselves are myths now. your young red beard from your first trip. my time in mozambique. the attack in tanzania. the two of in kenya. bathing my first born in a bucket at your house, before we took her to see the jane goodall chimps and lions and a lake’s worth of flamingoes, darkened by ample shrimp. your anguish is on my mind. knowing the pain of not being able to choose all the starfish to throw back in is weighing heavy on your heart this week. do me a favour. go down to my banda. open the doors. shake out the sheets. clear the spider webs.run the water. and think of me for a short while. i’ll be there again as soon as i can.