trepidatious

Listen because nobody does
I thought of you the other day and this small act produce a mysterious moisture (over-active occular glands, no doubt were to blame). I thought you might have felt this somehow too, but what are the odds? It occured to me that we may have already said goodbye for the last time --how could we know it? Not like the Anza-Borrego or grammer school halls where I took leave, long ago, with a ceremonious salute--a final farewell--only to find myself, years later, back. But who knows the number of faces and streets I have known and even, perhaps, loved, and have unwittingly kissed goodbye for the last time.
I confess, I have moved through my life under a cloud of suspicion that the best of my days lay always at some vague 'ahead', or worse, coated in a film of fear that perhaps I have already encountered them, masked as mundane, and shall never meet them again.