Not a day goes by that I don’t think of Susan

and the few weeks that we spent, together, one summer, now so long ago,

before she went off to college, and I returned to high school.

My mind turns to her, daily, even if for just a few seconds,

and I imagine myself talking to her,

and hearing again the sound of her voice,

filled with her wit, her insight, her intellect,

or seeing her again,

her red hair, her brown eyes.

Sometimes, as I drive my children home from school, or

as I make myself comfortable in bed at night alongside my wife,

the question that remains unanswered after thirty years finds its way into my thoughts:

what meaning did we have in each other’s lives?

and I wonder why we’re still so afraid of each other.