An old friend of mine is dead.
He was not old (neither am I, am I?).
I don't know what happened to him. I don't know why he is gone.
The trend these days is not to disclose the manner.
(It bothers me, to not know. It's as if that person is a book that cannot be reshelved)
This fellow was one of a particular string:
casual yet constant,
(in unrequited love? platonic? pining? I have never known...)
quick to reach for his wallet,
deep, thinking, talking
sharp humor,
quirk-ridden, but unselfconscious
and simultaneously,
Not My Type/My Type
Palms to shoulders, elbows locked,
that distance was never breached.
We did not discuss my out-of-town boyfriend.
He did not know I had one. It never seemed to be an issue.
We did not talk about feelings.
We just spent time together. Talking about anything and everything else.
Riding in his muscle car. Dinners out. Visiting briefly with Roma, his platinum blonde mother in her suburban living room, television on, shag carpet maybe? On the way to his basement, where he brooded and sometimes phoned, to quote our favorite author, to suggest another outing.
I find that I don't remember everything. I find that I might put stereotypes into the blanks (sorry, Ric).
He came to my wedding. My mother thinks he was heartbroken.
Decades passed.
We never really reconnected, but in the last few years, we traveled in a shared, wobbly, invisible circle of people from the same place. Exchanged a bland comment. 'Ha ha' at shared humor.
So this is how this will go, isn't it? This is my price.
For living and loving.
I think that you were happy. I wish that you had told me. I hope that you did not have
regrets.
