He and June live in a condominium near San Jose. I have spoken to her on the phone, this daughter-in-law whom I have never met. Soon I suppose they'll start a family, and then I'll have grandchildren I've never met.

And Andy? The last time I heard from him he was in Seattle, and talking about heading on up to Vancouver. It sounded as though he was calling from a bar, and his voice was thickened with drink. He doesn't call often, and when he does it's always from someplace new, and he always sounds as though he's been drinking. "I'm having fun," he told me. "One of these days I guess I'll settle down, but in the meantime I'm gathering no moss."

Fifty-five years old, and what moss had I gathered? What had I done with those years? And what had they done to me?

And how many did I have left? And, when they'd slipped away like the rest, what would I have to show for them? What did anybody ever have to show for the years that were gone?

There's a liquor store right across the street. From where I sat I could see the customers enter and leave. As I watched them, it came to me that I could look up the store's number in the phone book and have them send up a bottle.

That was as far as I allowed the thought to go. Sometimes I'll let myself consider what type of liquor I'd order, and what brand. This time I shook the thought off early on and breathed deeply several times, willing myself to let it go.

Then I reached for the phone and dialed a number I didn't have to look up.

It rang twice, three times. I had my finger poised to break the connection, not wanting to talk to a machine, but then she picked up.

"This is Matt," I said.

She said, "That's funny. I was just this minute thinking of you."

"And I of you. Would you like company?"

"Would I?" She took a moment to consider the question. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I would."