I expected five decades to have erased a promise four teenagers made beside a lake. Instead, three boxes were waiting on our old bench, each with my name on it, and nothing inside them was what I expected.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I knew something was wrong before I reached our old bench.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I could see it through the trees, exactly where we\u2019d left it 55 years ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nobody was sitting there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d prepared myself for that possibility. Three old friends scattered across three countries had plenty of reasons not to remember a promise we\u2019d made at 17.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What I hadn\u2019t prepared for were the three boxes waiting on the bench.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Each one had my name on it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
HAROLD.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The bench was smaller than I remembered, its boards gray and weathered, but four initials were still carved into one end.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
H. T. R. N.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I ran my thumb over them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We had carved those initials there the night we graduated high school in 1970.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tommy, Ray, Nick, and me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That night, we\u2019d sat beside the lake until nearly midnight, talking about everything we were going to do with our lives.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tommy\u2019s family was moving to Australia. Ray wanted to see Europe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nick swore he\u2019d marry the first beautiful woman who laughed at his terrible jokes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I wasn\u2019t going anywhere. My father owned a hardware store in town and expected me to work beside him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d talked about joining Tommy in Australia someday. My father always changed the subject.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Before we left the lake, Tommy made us promise something.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFifty-five years,\u201d he said. \u201cSame day. Same bench.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ray laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe\u2019ll be 72.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThen bring your walking stick.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We stacked our hands together like excited children.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Fifty-five years later, we\u2019d come back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At 17, none of us doubted we would.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
***<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For a while, we stayed close.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tommy wrote from Australia. Ray sent letters from Germany. Nick eventually settled in Portugal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then the letters became less frequent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then they stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I wrote too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At first, I\u2019d leave my letters on the hall table for my father to mail when he drove into town for the store. After a while, when nothing came back, I stopped giving him any.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eventually, silence begins to feel like an answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I married, had two children, buried my parents, lost my wife six years ago, became a grandfather, and grew old in the same town where we\u2019d all started.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But I never forgot the lake. I went back many times over the years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sometimes I\u2019d sit on our bench and trace those four initials, remembering the boys we\u2019d been and wondering where life had taken them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And every time, I\u2019d think about our promise and hope that somehow, when the 55 years were finally up, they\u2019d remember it too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Apparently, they had.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
***<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The boxes were different sizes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My hands were shaking when I opened the first.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I lifted out the red fishing lure, and laughed before I could stop myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tommy had bought it when we were 16.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He\u2019d spent three weeks bragging that it would catch the biggest bass in the lake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It never caught anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Underneath it was an envelope.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the first sentence wasn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
*Harold,*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
*If you\u2019re sitting on our bench, you remembered.*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I sat down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The letter was from Tommy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He had written it only seven months earlier.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He wrote about Australia, his wife, his children and grandchildren. He wrote that he\u2019d spent years imagining the four of us as old men sitting beside the lake. Then came the sentence that stopped me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
*I wish we\u2019d had the courage to ask you why you stopped writing.*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
*But if you came back to that bench, maybe I was wrong about you.*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I read it twice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Stopped writing?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tommy said the three of them had remained in contact.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not constantly, but enough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Christmas cards. Phone calls. Eventually emails.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And apparently my name had never disappeared from their conversations.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For years, they\u2019d wondered what they\u2019d done to make me cut them out of my life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My stomach tightened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I opened the second box. Inside was a cheap silver compass. Ray had carried it everywhere when we were teenagers, despite being incapable of reading it properly. Beneath it was a thick bundle of paper tied with string.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Letters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The first was dated August 1971.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
*Dear Harold,*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
*Germany is colder than I expected. Tommy says Australia is too hot, so between us we chose badly.*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I smiled, then I saw the final paragraph.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
*You haven\u2019t answered my last two letters. Everything okay?*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The next letter was from October.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then December.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then March 1972.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
*Harold,*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
*If you\u2019re angry about something, tell me. Nick hasn\u2019t heard from you either. Tommy thinks maybe your father is keeping you busy at the store.*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Another.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
*We miss you, idiot.*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Another.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
*Please write back, even if it\u2019s only one sentence.*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stared at the pages. I\u2019d never seen any of them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There were copies of 11 letters in that bundle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eleven.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I remembered checking the mailbox after work when I was 18.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then 19.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I remembered pretending I didn\u2019t care.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My father had noticed once. \u201cWaiting for something?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThose boys have their own lives now, Harold. You should get on with yours.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eventually, I had.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At the bottom of Ray\u2019s box was a letter written by his daughter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
*My father kept almost everything from those years, including carbon copies of letters he typed before mailing them. When we found these after his death, I finally understood why he sometimes talked about you with such sadness.*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After his death.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I covered my mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ray was gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He had died three years earlier.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His daughter wrote that one of the last things he\u2019d asked her to do was make sure his box reached the bench if he couldn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I sat there for several minutes before touching Nick\u2019s box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I almost didn\u2019t want to open it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lying across the top was a photograph of an old pocketknife.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I knew it immediately. The four of us had used that knife to carve our initials into the bench.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Underneath it was another bundle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But these weren\u2019t letters to me. They were copies and originals Tommy, Ray, and Nick had exchanged with one another over the years, gathered together for me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One from Tommy in 1973 mentioned me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
*Maybe we should stop bothering him. If Harold wanted us in his life, he would answer.*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nick had replied.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
*I don\u2019t understand it. He was the one crying when we left.*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Another, years later: *Do you think we did something?*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And finally, from Ray: *I think we have to accept that Harold doesn\u2019t want us anymore.*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I lowered the page.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For 55 years, I\u2019d believed exactly the opposite.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They hadn\u2019t abandoned me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They thought I\u2019d abandoned them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
***<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was still trying to understand how we\u2019d all been so wrong when a shadow fell across the letters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Two young men and a woman were standing several yards away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The older man stepped forward. \u201cHarold?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He smiled, but his eyes were wet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m Oscar. Tommy\u2019s son.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The woman beside him introduced herself as Ray\u2019s daughter, Anna.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The younger man was Nick\u2019s son, Luis.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Suddenly I understood. \u201cYou brought these?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Oscar nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThey made us promise we\u2019d come, even if they couldn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Something in the way he said it made my stomach drop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCouldn\u2019t?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His expression changed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tommy had died eight months earlier.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Cancer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He\u2019d known he probably wouldn\u2019t make it to the lake, so he\u2019d prepared his box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ray had already been gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at Luis.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I couldn\u2019t ask, and he seemed to understand that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMy father\u2019s alive.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The breath left me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNick?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe\u2019s alive. He\u2019s ill, though. Traveling this far wasn\u2019t possible.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked down at the photograph of the pocketknife.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDoes he know I\u2019m here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Luis smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe\u2019s been asking me every hour.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Something inside me finally broke apart right then.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had spent decades training myself not to miss three people because I believed they had stopped missing me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDid they ever talk about me?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Anna looked almost surprised. \u201cMr. Harold, I\u2019ve known your name since I was a child.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Oscar nodded. \u201cSame.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Luis smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDad used to tell us about the lake. He said you were the only person who could beat him swimming.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe cheated.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ve heard that too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I laughed, then started crying. And nobody tried to stop me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eventually, Anna sat beside me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThere is something else,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She pointed toward the letters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDad never understood why you didn\u2019t receive them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Neither did I.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
***<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But on the drive home, one question wouldn\u2019t leave me alone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What had happened to all those letters?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I barely slept.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Early the next morning, I went into my basement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After my father died, I\u2019d packed what remained of his office into boxes. Most hadn\u2019t been opened in decades.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I found his old desk at the back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The bottom drawer was locked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I almost ignored it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then I remembered something.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My father kept a tiny brass key inside an old tobacco tin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The tin was still in one of the boxes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The key fit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Inside the drawer were tax records, receipts and photographs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And underneath them was a stack of envelopes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The first had my name on it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So did the second, and the third.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Some had Australian stamps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Some German.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Some Portuguese.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I sat on the basement floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Twenty-three letters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Most were unopened letters my friends had sent me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But near the bottom were three envelopes I recognized immediately.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My handwriting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My stamps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The letters I\u2019d given my father to mail.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He hadn\u2019t only stopped their words from reaching me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He\u2019d stopped mine from reaching them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I opened the oldest. Near the bottom, 18-year-old me had written, \u201cDon\u2019t forget about me over there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Suddenly, I was 18 again, standing beside our mailbox while he told me those boys had their own lives.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My father hadn\u2019t merely watched me wait. He\u2019d known.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Beneath the letters was an envelope with my name on it, written in my father\u2019s hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It wasn\u2019t sealed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Inside was a letter he\u2019d apparently started years later and never found the courage to give me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
*You were going to leave. First Australia, then wherever the others went.*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
*The store needed you.*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
*Your mother needed you. I told myself that one day you\u2019d understand why I kept those letters.*<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I read it until the words blurred.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My father had been terrified I\u2019d leave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Instead of telling me, he\u2019d made the decision for me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He didn\u2019t need to hide letters forever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Only long enough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
By the time I moved out, the damage was done.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My friends believed I\u2019d rejected them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I believed they\u2019d forgotten me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After enough unanswered letters, hurt did what my father had counted on. We stopped trying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was furious.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But anger had nowhere to go.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My father had been dead for 26 years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tommy was dead, and so was Ray.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There are some things an apology cannot restore because everyone who deserves to hear it is already gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But Nick wasn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I wasn\u2019t going to lose whatever time we had left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
***<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Three weeks later, I stepped off a plane in Portugal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Luis met me at the airport.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nick lived with his wife in a small house overlooking the sea.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
During the drive, I barely spoke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat if he doesn\u2019t recognize me?\u201d I finally asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Luis laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe will.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nick was sitting beside a window when I walked into the room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was thin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Much thinner than the boy in my memory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His hair was white, his hands spotted with age, and an oxygen tube ran beneath his nose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then his eyes moved over my face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A small smile appeared. \u201cYou took your time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It came out as a sob.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nick\u2019s smile trembled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then he held out his hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I crossed the room and took it, but that wasn\u2019t enough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I bent down and hugged him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nick\u2019s arms came around me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And suddenly 55 years disappeared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not completely. Nothing could ever give them back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But for a moment I could smell lake water and summer grass, and I could hear Tommy arguing with Ray while four boys promised one another something none of us understood would become important.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nick pulled back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFor what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFor not finding you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He shook his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe didn\u2019t find you either.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMy father took the letters.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nick went still as I told him everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
About the drawer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The 23 envelopes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The note.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When I finished, Nick stared through the window for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo you didn\u2019t leave us.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He squeezed my hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe didn\u2019t leave you either.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had brought the old letters with me to Portugal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I pulled out one of my own unsent letters and handed it to Nick.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He read the line I\u2019d written at 18.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t forget about me over there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nick closed his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHarold,\u201d he said quietly, \u201cwe never did.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Those words hurt more than anything I\u2019d read in the boxes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Because they gave me exactly what I\u2019d wanted at 18.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Only 55 years late.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We talked for hours. About Tommy, about Ray.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
About marriages and children and jobs and mistakes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nick told me Tommy had kept that useless red lure through six house moves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ray had carried his compass to Germany, then kept it in his desk for the rest of his life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nick still had the knife.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI wanted you to have it,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I reached into my bag.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI brought something too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His eyebrows lifted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I placed a small wooden object in his palm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A carved fish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d made it in shop class when I was 16.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We used to joke that it was the only fish Tommy\u2019s lure would ever catch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d kept it for more than half a century.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nick stared at it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then he laughed so hard Luis came in to check on him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We had 55 years of friendship to catch up on, and we weren\u2019t finished yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
***<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A month later, we arranged one more meeting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not at the lake because Nick couldn\u2019t travel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So we brought the lake to him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Oscar flew in with Tommy\u2019s red lure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Anna brought Ray\u2019s compass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I brought the carved fish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nick\u2019s pocketknife was already there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We placed all four objects on the table beside his window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Four pieces of four boys\u2019 lives. Together again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We took a photograph.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Oscar said his father would have loved it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Anna said hers would have complained that we put the compass upside down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nick looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFifty-five years,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe kept the promise.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at the empty chairs around us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNot exactly.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nick shook his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThey sent their children, Harold. I\u2019d say that counts.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I cannot recover the years my father took from us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I cannot sit beside that lake with Tommy or hear Ray complain about getting old. But I know now that they remembered me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They missed me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They wanted me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And somewhere in Australia and Germany, children grew up hearing stories about a fourth boy beside a lake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A boy their fathers never stopped calling their friend.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Before I left Portugal, Nick handed me the pocketknife.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTake it back,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhere?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at me as if the answer were obvious.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe bench.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So yesterday morning, I returned to the lake alone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I sat where four boys once sat and placed Nick\u2019s knife against the faded initials we\u2019d carved in 1970.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t cut new ones.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I only traced the old marks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
H. T. R. N.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They were still there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So were we.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I expected five decades to have erased a promise four teenagers made beside a lake. Instead, three boxes were waiting on our old bench, each with my name on it, and nothing inside them was what I expected. I knew something was wrong before I reached our old bench. I could see it through the …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":20461,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-20460","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20460","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=20460"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20460\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":20462,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20460\/revisions\/20462"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/20461"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=20460"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=20460"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=20460"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}