It was sometime in early March, when the remnants of a wintery sky remained unpolished by the coming of Spring. You asked me what it was like to have met him, and I merely composed myself, trying to come up with the right words to describe our first encounter.
"He was like a breath of fresh air," was my response.
And you smiled, and asked how it could be so. I needn’t exaggerate the night as we walked under the starry New York City lights, or the way we laughed as I tripped over invisible hazard. How he held the door while I encouraged him a taste of foreign cuisine, and how even through the laughter and the open conversation thrown up in the air about life, family, and love, he simply listened. As I did, despite holding back the private personal fragments of the past, how we stood and sat and ran up against the old and new places we abandoned through our youth. How he pointed to the skyline, and motioned towards the infinity of the future. How he could so easily hold it within his reach. How I saw in him, someone I could possibly repeat moments of everyday with.
“So what happened?” you asked.
I needn’t answer in literates. I turned to look through the window and spoke what my heart believed to be true of what ended a memory I still hold to be dear.
"I had to go home, and so did he."