Sitting in the shade of a large oak
that we used to climb as kids, we reminisced back
to when we pretended that we weren’t grown
with jobs and responsibilities. Your voice trembled
a little when you spoke of the good ole’ days, and I thought
for a moment that maybe you hadn’t completely let them go.
Scared, I asked you about work, and you answered smoothly,
rapidly, with the flawless speech of a man unable to speak
his heart’s deepest yearnings. It was so long ago that we danced
to the car stereo under a cloudy sky threatening rain; I remember too.
I remember saying our goodbyes later that summer, just before
going off to different schools. I couldn’t hold onto a memory
any more than you could, and we agreed not to ask about it.
Wondering what you’re remembering, what you’re thinking,
I look over in time to see your eyes cloud over, locking it all
inside you again.