I have not forgotten the man on the couch with his fists in his lap.
He was sullen,
broken,
downward glancing.
I have not forgotten the death grip with which he held his fears.
He was clutching,
squeezing,
never releasing.
The seal was tight and nothing came in and nothing went out,
no odor,
no light,
no recognition.
If he had released his grip, he would have seen
how misshapen and discolored his fears were.
If he had chanced a whiff, he would have smelled
their paltry and sour scent.
If he had only thought to examine them,
he would have understood.
Instead, afraid they might escape and devour him,
he watched his fists both day and night.
I sat beside him all those years.
Did he even know I was there?
I have not forgotten, but I did get up from that couch one day
to bid him farewell and begin my long walk down an unknown path,
because I was suddenly struck by the notion
I had somewhere else I needed to be.
