Different seasons. Different circumstances. I remember his wet eyes. He is always polite. His words seem genuinely courteous and grateful.
He is not old, but the lines in his face tell me he feels each and every one of his years. He dresses his age. His pack is full, heavy with a responsibility I rarely see from where I sit each day. He radiates a melancholy I recognize like my own finger tips dragging across the bones of my hips. His gaze is like a familiar smell. I can see years, months, hours, and minutes of memory simultaneously. We have spoken few words to each other.
He overwhelms me. He knocks me over. I strain to hear him like whispers. He closes the door behind him. I don’t know when I will see him again. I don't know that I want to.
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