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I met him twice or thrice, this man, my age,
who died beneath a clear October sky,
a Sunday in New Mexico. He was
the husband of a good woman, father
of two near grown girls, and left his home
in Pennsylvania to go hiking
those arid plains and hills, not intending
not to return--not even suspecting.

His good wife and I, when we were twenty,
together with a busload near that age,
traveled Europe for a summer--mid June
to early August, from London east to
East Berlin, south to the isles of Greece,
then west again to fly home from Madrid.
We saw each other often in the years
that followed--her wedding and my wedding,

reunions at her place sometime back and
then again this past summer in DC.
In DC, I remember her joking
with her best friend from that trip, saying they
would leave their husbands and live together
in some small village perched on the white cliffs
of coastal Italy where she and he
could escape from their American lives

of struggling businesses and sexual
politics--a moment of levity
in a happy time that I hope neither
of them will remember and taste regret.
I found a note from her in this morning's
email. The message in soft blue letters
read that she and the dead and their daughters
"had excellent goodbyes with no regrets."

I think about how wide this world and how
we move through it, separate but connected.
That Sunday when he died and she answered
the call that carried the news, I was on
the road in Illinois, in Kentucky,
in Tennessee, at table with a friend
for lunch in Nashville, alone for supper
in Knoxville, home with my wife by midnight.


I've been working on this one for the last few days, in between student advising appointments.