You could be happy, but I don’t know. Chances are I will never know. Sad for a moment my heart warms when I think
of your blue eyes, your freckles, your round face and your black hair. Head cocked to the side you still exist in a
black and white photo smile aglow and surrounded by dried flowers under cellophane
in a photo album of those gone but still loved.
Imagining my life without you is impossible. You freed me.
Your refusal to accept boundaries or convention provided me one of the
keys to what I have become. Together we
walked down the guided path through teenage sunshine into the start of the thickets
that mark life on our own. That point, the
one where you have to make the choice as to whether to head overland or take
the coast road, it was there we parted.
You chose one route and I the other.
We promised to write, we promised to call, and we promised a love and
friendship forever. It has been twenty
five years now (at least) since we talked.
You could be happy. I hope so.
The tea kettle is starting to whistle. The night is cold enough and there is dampness
to the air. Solo piano music plays in
the background, the pianist pounding the keys and sighing. In a flash I am in a
room far too small to contain my life. Pulling
on a coat that will not keep me warm I must walk agitatedly out in the night
air. In the darkness I stare up at
eternity. You could be happy. Oh how I
very much hope so.
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