tar and cigar.

I remember driving around late at night with friends whose passion burned strongest around cars. I had a particular friend whose friendship with me was only momentary and very fleeting. Once upon a time, we were two cars driving on empty roads. Some nights we spent in a parking lot. Sometimes with other cars and other people, but seldom with just two cars and the two of us. As far as I can remember it happened only a handful of times.

I remember driving out one night to meet my friend in a deserted parking lot. After some obligatory greetings, we had the hood of our cars propped up as we sat on the curb of the road throwing pebbles at the asphalt.

It started with talks about cars, then the sky, the ground, and the waters. Eventually, it turned into a conversation about people, health, about the past, present, and future, and then about life and death. I can count how many times on my hand we've had a one-to-one conversation. The air was filled with the distinctive scent of tar and cigar. A hybrid of the two scents that had never been my favourite and yet under those starry skies and cold pavement, I remember thinking it was completely fitting.

As life progressed, I drifted from this niche. I no longer drive on empty roads in good company. I no longer sit on the curb having thought-provoking conversations about anything that our creative minds could conjure. I no longer throw pebbles at the asphalt breathing in tar and cigar and dreaming about a whole life ahead.

These days I ponder where life took my friends. I wonder where they are-- if they're still in town or if they've moved on from this city that broke and revived our hearts so many times. It's a lonely journey-- the one I chose. I didn't realize how much I missed the night drives, the heavy talks, and the dream of what we envisioned before our choices led us to drift apart.

A few years later as I stood at the post office registering mails I picked up the distinctive scent of tar and cigar beside me. A wave of nostalgia washed over me like a reminder of what it used to be, I became perplexed, not sure how I should react. I was stuck at an impasse thinking, "It can't seriously be them." Even if it was I wasn't sure what I should say or do. Suddenly it became awkward. I refused to look up to confirm whether my suspicions were accurate.

Then a voice broke the silence as the man beside me responded to the clerk assisting him. The voice was the same deep, coarse voice that accompanied mine in the mental playback tape of my past. Still, I refused to confirm. Instead, I buried my head deeper in the task at hand and focused on quickly writing names and addresses on the labels.

After the man departed, I let out a sigh of sadness, disappointment and relief. I justified my cowardness by telling myself I best leave the past where it belongs, in the past. I can't deny that I felt a sort of sadness and emptiness that came to life from the regret of losing that transient friendship. It was almost as if the day at the post office provided the closure I needed to close that chapter of my life.

Would you have guessed that the scent of tar and cigar was capable of holding so many memories? It is associated with memories I wouldn't give up for anything. It represents a life that was young and carefree. So much optimism and eagerness for the future. And for some peculiar reason unbeknownst to me, these are the memories I clearly did not revive when given the opportunity. It feels like life has a comical operant conscious of itself.

The familiar scent of tar and cigar brings me back to the nostalgic days we spent with our cars only ever under the stars, and I realized now that I really miss those nights after we've all moved on.

I often think about the friends I grew up with and always hope that life has been extra kind to them.