On Seeing You AgainOn Seeing You Again After All These Years Like a tree falling, soil brittle between the roots, branches spanning the absence of clouds, is how he comes down to hug me. And out of this tree, a lean-to is built— jacket hitched over his left arm, over his left hand, his finger, second-from-the left— sheltering the present from the iron clouds of the past, pressing space between them like a bookmark, Even yet, when the sun beats so heavily in her face not even the vacancy in pupil can cool the gold melting in those irises of reflect. Staring hot and dumbly, smile cracked into mild gape–a tomato in the sun, for as long as focus moves unidirectional. A gunshot in the silence, it bleeds serendipity from its wound as someone kicks, again, at the wedge grafted between the floor and splice of door. Behind, his and hers stand unconspiringly close at the buffet, bent tirelessly on fill, awareness drifting in the interim like smoke. Reaching for the ladle together their hands brake before its heat, and sputter with the laughter of accident. Each laughing at their own startled reflections in the others’ eyes. Comfort shakes its head, tossing its mane in a lazy effort to remain awake. Memory molding over what today has been thinking. I held the hand of the man I did not know. 13 and street-crossing for the first time alone. I had forgotten I was alone. Had forgotten I was alone until, slipping past his palm, I ran into the lock between his fingers, and it rang up my arm, a bell behind each eye. I was not alone in my surprise, was not alone in my blush of encounter.