Getting off the Marrakech Express

"Ha! unbelievable!" those were the first thoughts that crossed my mind. The fact that you've showed up here again is the main thing, the fact that you look the way you do is another thing. I see you coming up the dusty walk that leads to my home. You've still got that long hair- made gray by the years, and that full beard that we discussed, is something I've never seen on you. Stuck in '69, that's the way you operate. We were kids then, and by the looks of things you still are. Which is fine by me, of course. After Dave left, a bit of immaturity is always welcome around here. I allow you to come into the house, and drop your dusty trappings on the floor. Mabel does a once-over of your 45s, and curls up on your crumpled old ponchos. "Well, you haven't changed so much!" you boom as I guide you to the kitchen table. "Want some organic chamomile?" (that was always a favorite of yours) and I slide a steaming cup your way. Now's my opportunity to really look at you: those eyes have gained a blue intensity, and your nose appears to have gotten sharper. As well as the lines around those cerulean orbs, but I'm not exactly the definition of youthfulness either these days. "Still painting?" you half-ask, as I stand contemplating your arms. "Yes, some of my things are actually hanging in the hospital lobby these days." "Ah, that was always you-content with what you've got." You grimace, fiddling with your teaspoon.
"Been married?" You ask this one out of the corner of your eye, leaning precariously back in your chair- you know I've always hated that. "Yes....once. It didn't exactly work out, but I was happy enough." "Happy enough," you mock with that dry tone of yours, "I two ended up happy enough-twice. The first time...well, you know what happened as a result of that- Tamberlyne. I guess I shouldn't have married Jill, just raised Tam with her. Let's see second time around...things were alright with me, she got bored, went to live with her sister. The idea of living with a troubadour is fantastic when you're 25, not so much when you reach the big 5-0." You finish this bit up with a slam to the floor in your chair. "Yeah, I can understand all that." I reply uneasily, sliding in the chair across from you."
"I bet you can, alright." comes the reply, with that classic sad smile. The phone's ringing, (it's Daphne) bringing us back to reality. "That's my cue." And you sidle out of the kitchen to the stoop, dodging my easels and that old Janis Ian (you seem to appreciate that I kept that) along the way. "I'll be comin' by later, with the rest of them. Maybe we can arrange one of those jam sessions like we used to, okay?" With this you leave me with a scratchy beard kiss, and a jaunty sort of wave. I smile and wave back, quick to caution you about my rather nefarious tomato vines, as you saunter down the path you started from, the one you never really stopped taking.