Years and Yearbooks
They took no
classes together
And, after that
first year
Never attended the
same school
But somewhere, inside
the scattered years of their lives
There were
yearbooks.
He drives slowly
now, slower than he used to
Even more slowly today,
through the empty school parking lot
The first time in
fifty-eight years.
Windows not yet boarded.
Walls not yet graffitied.
His cane balances
an unsteady walk
As he inches
toward his youth.
His raised left
hand shields the sun’s reflection
Then steadies him against
the window
As he searches
For their two adjoining
lockers –
Where she had slammed
her locker door
When it hit the
side of his head –
And he looked at
her for the first time.
Somewhere at the
end of another hallway
He’s forgotten in
which direction
The lunchroom
Where one evening
At the end of the
school year
He walked toward
her sitting with legs crossed
Atop a long table
And, after she
said, Yes, he handed her his yearbook
He remembered
How she cradled it
on her lap
How her hands
smoothed the blank page
His not wanting
her to let go.
She wrote,
Well, Mike, we met
when I hit your head with my locker door.
Hope we get the
same lockers next year.
His yearbook, now
lost. His words to her now forgotten.
He thought of her all
summer.
Wished he could be
with her
But their district
split and
Sent them to
different schools.
That September he
called. She accepted.
And they grew into
a couple - three nights a week on the phone
Every Friday and
Saturday together
Through difficult
classes and summer jobs
Their parallels as
a couple abounded
She the cheerleader
He captain of
football and basketball teams
Both college bound
Lives stride by stride
until he discovered
The world, and she
preferred a classroom
He wanted her to change
She wanted peace
and security
He traveled the country
She moved to a
farm and taught in a small school
He continued to
feel her presence decades after she returned his ring
He saw her only once
after that - from afar and was
Forced to lean
against a railing to quiet himself
As he does when he
looks at her senior photo
Then drives past
her house –
Where they parked
for hours
Where they last
met when she said good-by
As he does now when
he drives to the high school and
Searches through the
window for their lockers –
Where for a moment
He is young
And unbroken.
Frozen. Bitter. Misogynistic. Critical. Skeptical.
Fought cowardly. Lived blindly. Lusted universally. Mistaken usually. Remembered angrily. Forgot rarely. Complained copiously. Worried incessantly.
Acted superior. Felt inferior.
Potential unlimited. Opportunity divine. Failure complete.
Died today as I watched him struggle for his last breath.
Yank the knife
from your belt.
Place your left
hand - palm down – on the kitchen table.
Close your eyes
Slam the knife
point toward your hand.
Wait
For the sounds
From the table?
From the knife? From you?
Open your eyes.
Look at your hand.
Now start your
day.
Thomas Elson’s stories
appear in numerous venues, including Blink-Ink, Ellipsis, Better Than
Starbucks, Bull, Cabinet of Heed, Flash Frontier, Ginosko, Short Édition,
North Dakota Quarterly, Litro, Journal of Expressive Writing, Dead
Mule School, Selkie,
New Ulster, Lampeter, and Adelaide. He divides his time between Northern
California and Western Kansas.
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