In my next life I hope to be a writer. And this is how I want to write...
From Again to Carthage by John L. Parker.
Eight days later the Runner lay in an oak box at the feet of a childhood friend on the hot little hill of faded brown grass in the middle of the coral peninsula the Spaniards named for flowers. The faint traffic hum from Interstate 4 in the distance drifted across the parboiled landscape of scrub palmettos and spindly pines, indicating that humidity and rabid insects notwithstanding the Sunshine State was on the move.
The preacher was waiting.
Cassidy made a noise just to be sure he could. Then he pulled some cards from his inside jacket pocket and looked up at the small group. "Robert Penn Warren wrote about how there is really no one quite like a friend of your youth. Someone who looks at you later in life and sees you only as you were when you were young. I cannot truly comprehend that we are here today for the reason that we are, and I don't think I'll be able to understand it for a very long time. And the one person who I would want to help me understand it is the one person who cannot. He was a friend of my youth and that is the way I will always think of him."
"It was that crazy head-floating scent of frangipani, oleander, Spanish moss, Gulf Stream, and some kind of spicy bayonet plant that always reminded him of the aroma of drawn butter sitting beside a lobster tail.
It was salty tropical fruit salad is what it was and it woke him to the first rays of sun over Lake Worth. He lay drowsily under a single mostly symbolic sheet watching the orange glow suffuse the stucco surfaces and arches of his bedroom, stretching deliciously and almost without movement in the rare absence of air-conditioning's false chill."
If you didn't know, I loved Parker's Once a Runner. While I'm barely into his Again to Carthage it's shaping up into a wonderful read.