Every Year, The Memories I Have Of

Maybe The First Time You Saw Her You Were Ten. She Was Standing In The Sun Scratching Her Legs. Or Tracing Letters In The Dirt With A Stick. Her Hair Was Being Pulled. Or She Was Pulling Someone's Hair. And A Part Of You Was Drawn To Her, And A Part Of You Resisted--wanting To Ride Off On Your Bicycle, Kick A Stone, Remain Uncomplicated. In The Same Breath You Felt The Strength Of A Man, And A Self-pity That Made You Feel Small And Hurt. Part Of You Thought: Please Don't Look At Me. If You Don't, I Can Still Turn Away. And Part Of You Thought: Look At Me.

If I Had A Camera,' I Said, 'i'd Take A Picture Of You Every Day. That Way I'd Remember How You Looked Every Single Day Of Your Life.

Later - When Things Happened That They Could Never Have Imagined - She Wrote Him A Letter That Said: When Will You Learn That There Isn't A Word For Everything

He Died Alone Because He Was Too Embarrassed To Phone Anyone.

There Are Moments When A Kind Of Clarity Comes Over You, And Suddenly You Can See Through Walls To Another Dimension That You'd Forgotten Or Chosen To Ignore In Order To Continue Living With The Various Illusions That Make Life, Particularily Life With Other People, Possible.