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He came to me while dusting,

stirring a passage to a past

the color of smooth chocolate,

suspended in sweet uncertainties.

 

We were in seventh grade, sharing

the same social studies and English

classes. He wore glasses and

gravitas sublime and unknowable.

 

I wore a nervous smile, fell mute

in his presence. He stayed with

his silence. I clung to my

self-consciousness.

 

He is fifty-eight years old in the photo.

His eyes behind the glasses young,

vibrant, his face fuller, offering a wry

smile at my startle to his obituary.