Return of a Prodigal Friend

I lit a candle and began to pray that Monday morning and a sense of familiarity hit me without a warning when from back of the church, I heard a distinct voice. It was one I hadn't heard in decades, but I dare not rejoice until I knew for sure it was Jordan, a friend from the past. Had he come home, and this time, would our friendship last? I was afraid to turn and look, in case I was mistaken, for when he'd left without a word, I had felt forsaken. Not in an intimate kind of relationship. It wasn't like that for us, but he made me laugh when he called me, 'Brat.' I was 19 when Jordan disappeared, and I feared the worse... that the mischievous ways of his had been a curse. My eyes were closed when I felt someone sit beside me. I didn't need to open them when his leg hit my knee. It was a game we'd played when one of us was feeling down and Jordan's smile, his beautiful smile, would erase my frown. Now, he took my hand in his, and we both knelt to pray. That was his way of saying, "I'm sorry, Brat. I'm back to stay." We'd talk later, but now it was enough that he was here. Jordan reached up and wiped my cheek of a falling tear.