After breaking bread together, men gather where we have for decades. Scuffed chairs couched in a circle, socks caress socks on our common ottoman. The check-in process never quite done, my posse pretends there’s a pond, tosses pebbles in, deals with the ripples, fishes. Deeply felt but not always easy, K., 46, offers, “My boss pisses me off.” Pause. By accounts the best of us, L. angles, “Let’s get present in the room.” Then for some glorious reason the eight of us are jujitsued toward Sunday’s silent session. Collective skin peeled below bottled-up gripes, we drink the wine of everything and nothing, feel ecstatic, well met, to a man pledge to see the last one through though unsure what that might mean. Buds buttress my unstockinged essence-- B.G.E, I’m forever touched. Even though it’s Easter, each soul is the opposite of crucified. Swept into the maelstrom, we will end up as separated atoms which, every billion years or so, bump together to form molecules, every few trillion have the sorta group reunion knocks our socks off.