I was walking by the Hilltop Diner the other day (yeah, I know they changed the name, but, for us, it will always be the Hilltop) and noticed that all the windows were papered over. I went around the corner to the entrance where I saw a small sign tucked into the door frame: “After 40 years, we’ve lost our lease. The rent is too damn high. Thanks for your patronage.” I sighed and the memories flooded in.

I’m sure you remember how Hilltop was our go-to place when we first met. If it was Friday evening, we could be found at Hilltop. The food was good and, more importantly, we were thrilled that the prices were affordable for two young guys just starting out. You always were partial to the Reuben sandwich and I usually went for a Monte Cristo because, as you soon found out, I don’t like sauerkraut. We washed everything down with a Doctor Pepper which you convinced me to try when I didn’t think there was anything beyond ginger ale.

You were adamant that we take the booth in the back, right next to the big picture window so we could watch the world pass by. This is the place where we really got to know each other. We shared our stories — the good and the bad — and dished the latest gossip and the mundane routines of our everyday lives. I’ll never forget how we laughed and laughed again. We grew comfortable with each other. We fell in love.

Since you left, when I’ve passed by Hilltop, I’ve often stared at my reflection in that big picture window, and wished that we could share just one more meal, to laugh again, to remember, to gaze out at a world that has changed so much. Now I worry that the places that help keep your memory alive in my heart are slowly disappearing. Time is such a thief.