Copyright 2026, Jack A. Urquhart

Dear Ray,

It’s been four years since you left us, dear man. And five or six times since then that you’ve paid me a quick visit.  

Maybe you remember how it goes? 

Sometimes you keep your distance—waving hello from the top of a hill. Other times, we’re together face-to-face in the same room—you looking young and handsome in your favorite striped shirt, the one you wore on the day we met. 

And always there’s your same tentative body language—that head-cocked distracted half smile, like you’re feeling the press of time, something beckoning your full attention away. Like you’re already late for another appointment. 

Like you know as well as I that it’s all a dream, nothing more than a few electrical signals stitching an unlikely narrative out of cosmic static. 

But so what if it is! 

For a few synaptic moments, I have you back again. And what ephemeral, blissful happiness your presence brings! 

And just so you know, it doesn’t matter that our encounters are followed by a longing for what once was and is no more. I wouldn’t have it otherwise, Ray. Not on my life.

For what makes life worth living if not those chilblain-inducing moments of overwhelming, unexpected, always fleeting joy?

All these silly words just to say: Yes. Please come again, dear man. Whenever you can. Whenever you have time.

I’m still here for you. 

Love, Jack