It’s been months since I’ve seen him.  It’s me who has been hibernating though.  We got caught in the office together until dark when the doors are locked and we’re chained to a computer screen, 70s music and pots of coffee.  The big brown bear smells a lot like fresh mushrooms, but he’s a bear. What are you going to do? 

This is me and the Big Brown Bear walking back from the coffee shop:  he’s at least eight feet, three-four hundred pounds, not honey-bear brown, more cocker spaniel brown.  I think the top of my head reaches his belly button.  I have to stare at the clouds to talk to him.  He likes muffins and chocolate.  He draws me chalk art on my blackboard walls.  Last time it was a volcano, an angry computer god, and stick figure virgins sacrificed to appease both.  And he wears sweaters that could only look good on him or someone’s dead grandfather.  The Big Brown Bear asks for beer.  His hands are as big as my head so I tell him soon.  When it’s over.  When he’s written his exit papers and I’ve written my story and we can both walk off these brick walkways flipping our birds.  But we don’t mean it.  Underneath all the unravelled threads, the shredded ends of things, the messy leftovers of the last two semesters, we fucking love it here.  But fuck it. 

You know what I love most about the Big Brown Bear?  He talks.  And I mean he talks.  Nonstop, all the time.  I know all about the little black bear he married, his mom’s house on the river, his great kids.  He talks and says exactly what he means. He talks so much I don’t have to think once about all those things that seemed so sure for so long just sort of dissolve right before your eyes. And no one is around to even know.  I could sing you that “We’re all alone” Mad Season song, but jesus, we don’t want to invite Captain Bringdown to the party, right? 

So anyhow, I take the Big Brown Bear soup today because he’s not eating.  He’s too stressed out to eat. We walk through the trees and he sings me songs in Spanish.  Right before I finally leave for the night, he lumbers into my doorway and actually thanks me for everything I’ve done, for being his friend, for listening to vent the frustration of consequetive all-nighters. As if I’ve done anything.  As if he is not the one who has reminded me about friends and small care packages and those little tiny things we all do for each other to make it through the days. 

As if I shouldn’t be weeping in gratitude for his giant, hairy, opera singing, caffeinated bear ass.