Picking up where we once left off,
as though the last twenty five years
weren’t amazingly full of rich, rich stories,
every season a lifetime unto itself,
every hour brimming with possibilities
—I could tell you a hundred of them,
a thousand if you had the time—
but where were we? Twenty five years ago,
before we set off on our unexpected
adventures, and who were we then,
before the news... You were twelve,
you were twenty two, I was twenty six,
and you: you were still in your teens,
not even thinking of all the world had
in store for you, even in the whisper of
a day. But rest now. We’ll talk more tomorrow.
—but I like all those stories of in-between,
I want to hold on to them, making sure
they don’t slip away or change into something
unrecognizable, forgettable. And you,
encouraging me with your eyes, your smile,
could almost make me forget the bookends.
Remember when? I could muster
a thousand smiles and turn around
to look at them a hundred times more:
Life, after all, is all about reliving,
and where we were once, and where
we are now, is only about forgiving.
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