The punctuation on an evening spent eating and drinking and raising glasses to hours of stories about their friend - these former co-workers, old students who now were married and had their own jobs in journalism, still thinking about his advice.
As the evening went on, it seemed a little less crippling that he was actually gone - that they had kind of brought him back to life for a short while, at least, and the journalism school was right there, where he used to always, always be.
It was sort of mutually decided to visit where he worked, to trace his path up the concrete steps into the rooms and floors he spent years inhabiting as a teacher, as a reporter, as a lurker in the hallways in between classes.
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