These past years
I have traced the line of our difference, acute angle growing ever more distant from inception when I was exactly half you. But lately, shouldering my bag and off to work, small cog in lumbering wheel, I guess similarity. In stretches of conscientious, contemplative soul into proscribed time constraints, I sense again the shared hinge, a way we still meet long after you are gone. On the path back I find within myself expressions of your bright interest: how does it, she, they work--processes and people? For both of us there is no such thing as not to care.