Spelman: A reverie

This is all I have: a memory
of a warm afternoon, cold drinks in our hands,
sitting next to each other on a patio overlooking
a wide, green lawn. I think we had just helped
some friends move in. Ten, fifteen minutes
at most -- that was all we had. I can't
even remember if we talked. Words were
not the important thing, the remembered thing.
Then someone came in and saw us sitting in the sun,
laughed, and said that she could imagine us
just like that, as old men in a nursing home
taking in the sun, and each other.

Have you forgotten? Not me, for
even now, her words make me dizzy,
make the contours of my life shimmer
for a moment. I whisper this memory to
myself, fearful of losing it forever. I hoard it
for myself, for it is my one treasure, the mirror
that tells me who I really am.

But the memory must pass. I grasp this table
to steady myself, to regain a sure footing
in my familiar world. I must come back.
My feet must find the floor again. This much I know.
All I can do is to offer this memory to the air,
whisper it another farewell of longing and
allow it to vaporize, once more, like you.