NOT TOMORROW
It starts with these things you attached, that attached to
you more so, perhaps, a sphere of past you revisit when you return home. The
feelings present in a bound and distant core you reach to only by accident.
Someday we will see each other again.
I imagine it will be at the Christmas celebration. We both
being aged, matured, and unchanged. Involved fully in the happy distraction of
our families one of us will spy the other from the corner of an eye through the
coated, noisy crowd. A rosy-faced winter grin dissolving into a look of tender
surprise. The other then sensing like a hidden movement noticed in a cramped
wood this gesture, and glancing toward it until the gazing surprise is mutual.
A deer lifting its head up and staring straight at you.
A thick white breath is thrown into the air, and several searching blinks, before the moment passes, and you answer a question your brother has asked you twice already.