I had not seen her in many years,
yet we still recognized one another.
I, another decade older,
and she, having lost her dear husband
seven years ago.
The hair jumped right out of her head,
and it never grew back.
It felt wondrous,
like a newly shorn lamb.
It gets cold, she said.
We watched the Penguin movie,
and in the end, you know
the penguin dies.
Next to me, a man is weeping,
memory shunting back and forth
between one lost,
and one yet to go.
He rises, clutching a sweatshirt
to his stomach, shrugging shoulders.
So cold.
Is this the paradox of love
on a planet with finite terms?
We fumble and grasp,
fish in or out of water.
Some days, I’m doing fine—
I guess? She cocks her head
like a curious bird.
Am I?
He died quickly,
which on one hand is a blessing,
and I know that.
On the other hand,
we never had enough time
to say goodbye.
I guess we never had enough time
together at all.