Our past is a History Book no one would read but us.
We didn’t have cars, until we did. We had lockers and
classes and unfolded ourselves to each other over four years. I don’t want to
know how you are, really, but I like to imagine, and I hope you are great. It’s
hard to be close, when I don’t know what that closeness is.
When someone says one of your names, your full names, it
sounds to me like a bell, a perfect pitch I heard over and over and it means
something exactly. Those years were just all those names and faces.
What would we say when we saw each other again. What does
ten years look like on your face? What does twenty? Mostly, I’m okay with
getting old, but I don’t know if I could take it if you did. Can’t you be the
way you were forever, before we all had spouses and children and houses? But if
you want those things I hope you have them. I hope you want, and have, all
sorts of wonderful things. I hope the days turns to nights with ease and the
mornings come with coffee or tea and, sometimes, your choice of pastry.
