In Brockville I got an encore and asked Tom to sing with me. I thought he might know “Satisfied Mind” he did not, but it didn’t matter. Beautiful and personal to play with him. He introduced me off the top talking about how we met in ’83, the Blue Moon Café, guitars, leaving Montreal, changing his surname, which I had never knew. When it came time for a solo, I suggested an interpretive dance. Without hesitation he complied, as though this had always been part of the plan. Dinner appeared, Moroccan in theme or aspiration, with apricots and very good rice, the kind that makes you think someone has taken care rather than followed instructions.

I liked their friends. Frank, a cabinetmaker in his mid 80s helped out, did the dishes, listened to the music with a quiet satisfaction, as though usefulness were still the best form of enjoyment. This seemed right. There was a Greek man with a story so extreme it sounded rehearsed. His father had expelled him from his life, demanded a hundred thousand dollars after the mother died, and then announced, almost as an aside, that the son was adopted. Families are endlessly inventive. He called the young woman who opened the night Heidillium, presumably she is from the periodic table of elements.