You don’t act secretive. You answer my questions. You give of yourself. Share your feelings and desires. You are open for all of us to explore.
But if I died and came back a few years later as one of the characters in “Our Town”, looking through the window at our family having breakfast, who would you be?
Would you live in the same house? Or would you have moved to the southern shore of Greece. Where the jasmine oozes from the white bricks along the seaside.
Would you look as you did? Or would you have slimmed down for the young girl that finds you handsome and erudite?
Are you a businessman? Or are you an artist. Elbow deep in paints and brushes and splotches of color never noticed before.
You no longer wear brown? No. I see. Your scarf is pink and your pants are green.
I see you walking now along the river picking small blue flowers and bringing them to the lady that makes the macaroons in the patisserie.
Why do u do that? Who is she to you? Why are you an artist? In Greece?
Are these the things you innately were…but couldn’t be…because we were one?
And now that I am gone, you alone are one?
Or did I never know you?