Leaving Starbucks late last night I heard a voice from behind me.
“It’s a little cold to be wearing shorts, don’t you think?”
I turned around to find a twenty-something guy sitting in a chair wearing shorts and a t-shirt, as was I. Immediately recognizing his boston accent, I laughed and told him I loved cold weather (it was nice, 38 degrees or so). He mentioned my Red Sox hat and asked if I was from Boston. I said no, that I was from Pensacola, but my father was from the north and I spent my summers in New England growing up.
He said he was from New Hampshire.
“So was my dad”, I said, “Jaffrey”.
He was from Dublin, and asked if I had climbed Mt. Monadnock. I told him many times. I asked him if he chose to come down south. He had, but was trying to get back to New England. I have a feeling there was an interesting story there, but they were starting to turn out the lights.
Before leaving he got up, asked my name, and shook my hand.
“I’m David,” he said, “nice to meet you.”
It’s been over ten years since my father died. He’s still my strongest connection to New England, and in many ways, that region is the strongest connection I have to my dad.