africa, circa 1972

i have this vision often of falling through time and landing in africa in the 1970s.

the grass is untouched by man and so is he.

he stands in the middle of the field, blond, curly hair. barefoot.

i have the overwhelming urge to grab him by the shoulders and tell him to run.

that i cannot save him.

but i am selfish, and i do not know him.

so, i ask if he’d teach me chess, or throw a ball.

we spend the afternoon playing catch, and he talks to me about his day to day life.

he was born in england, though he now prefers the wild fields to red telephone booths.

international school is weird, and he hopes to go to dallas soon. he doesn’t know that in later years he’ll hold me in a dallas hospital, only twice. the beginning of mine and the end of his.

the sun sets wild oranges on the plain, and i catch him up on my high school and college life. he laughs at my stories, carefree and unaware of the ticking clock.

i know my time is coming to an end when the constellations come out. i tell him how to find orion’s belt in the same way he taught me. three stars.

i want to hug him. but i don’t.

where are you going? i ask when he stands up.

home, he says. dad’s probably looking for me.

i don’t say that it’s unfair he gets to go home first.

will i see you again? he asks.

yes, i respond.

when?

i can’t tell you. but i’ll be there. i’ll miss you.

okay, he says. i want to hear about your life.

i’ll tell you all about it when i come home.