Remember, remember.

Some November 5 in the 40s two wiseass teenagers met in the Bronx, or maybe Queens. They bonded over their common knowledge of the Guy Fawkes rhyme — both halves. Their friendship lasted a lifetime, and though both curmudgeons are dead now, their daughters — my friend N and I — are still each other’s O&DF. N lives on the West Coast now, with her husband and sons, so I’ll call her in a couple of hours; meanwhile I’m drinking the malmsey she sent for my birthday and thinking about what it means to be profound and lifelong friends — but seldom speak.