Our mothers said we took baths together when we were babies. I splashed you; you splashed me. And it was sitting under an oak street, out in the fields behinds your house, that you told me we'd be married forever. We shared an ice cream cone and I showed you how to throw a pine cone. You tried your best, but it didn't go too far. And we giggled at that. I told you that after our high school graduation we'd start looking for our own place together. It had to have an extra room, you insisted, for the future. But the workadays turned into workaweeks, which stretched into workayears. And with the slow, quiet passage of time, you floated one way, while I drifted another. One day, a friend told me you were getting hitched with a guy from your circle of town acquaintances. I wondered if you'd ever thought of me. I wondered if you'd remembered the oak street, or the melted ice cream, or me kissing your cheek before you stood up for your diploma? Did I cross your mind, or had I become just a long ago playmate that stayed for a while but then passed through your life?
Alfred C. Martino
Updates from everyday life as seen by me