For Carol, because, once she reads it, she’ll swear it was written for her.
See? I’m always right. Just like Ivanova.
Remembrance
It was a chance meeting,
After ten years,
Four children,
And eight hundred
miles between them
The convergence of
Chance and induction
brought them together
In a flurry of electronica
And passionate remembrance.
Memories in fluid
passed between them,
Alternating currents of
certainty and doubt,
Gravel tossed in a pond
Posing ripples
with every surface struck
Names remembered,
events reviewed,
Who said what to whom
In ever broad
concentric bands of
Year after year.
And still,
one story looks
Nothing like the other,
Except, for now,
Building from this point on
A story in concert,
One stone dropped
to a still,
empty pond.
Adam Byrn Tritt 