It is not like riding a bicycle, one can forget how to dance. At the twenty-five mile marker we pass a cross with plastic flowers. Travelling east on I 70 things aren’t like they used to be. So much has died since we actually saw the stars. Every five years a reunion, the attendance dwindles. Old friends and lovers are strangers. We muse that they have aged badly then glance at each other discretely - avowed travelling companions quiet in the eye of the storm. Reunions can do that sometime, for a minute you forget that you’ve graduated.