He knew the truth and I didn't. I'm not bitter now, but I'm very, very tired.
I would see him coming a quarter mile off, walking down the Sunday morning ghost town street. I loved the way he walked. Every otherwise seemingly mundane step revealed a secret, a slight hint of the preciously guarded pain only spoken of inside the protective cocoon of darkness in the citadel of intertwining arms and legs.
I casually remarked on this once and it made him very angry. He felt betrayed. It were as though he had finely felt OK enough to bend over to get the soap he needed to clean up his life and I had violated him by verbalizing his vulnerability.
Memories are life partially digested. Memories are dead.
