I arrived at my parents’ home to introduce them
to my fiancée. My mother met me at the door
and took me aside to tell me I was just in time
to attend the funeral I didn’t know about—
for the first love I had met on a summer job
and with whom I shared my first intimacy
other than a kiss, her roommate passing
through the bedroom one evening smiling
while muttering, Carry on. My parents questioned
whether she was the right one. She wasn’t.
After my first month at grad school, I drove 400 miles
for a surprise visit only to discover
she was out on a date. So, thirty years later, I declined
a last goodbye in favor of a first hello.
