JIM

We never knew, as he passed through
our lives, and lightly kissed the girls’ lips.
He was witty and funny and fun.
I never saw a hint of pain in his
translucent blue eyes.
He held my hand when we went
to the movies and he gregariously
moved amongst us on the band bus.
We played in the woods with his
cousins and our friends.
We discovered a clearing with
massive vines hanging gloriously
from tall thick trees. It was as if
the place was waiting for us,
because the Kudzu stopped
its growth just shy of our haven.
We were elated. Our youthful
abandonment and supple bodies
allowed us to swing around, high
and wide. We held on tight, flew
and touched our inner freedom.
But Jim was not free, and we, his
friends and cousins did not know.
I thought it a little odd, the way he
carried his books in school. But
it wasn’t a big deal. His voice was
different from the other boys.
But we held hands in the movies
and kissed goodbye after college.
I didn’t know about his plans to
move from the south all the way
to New York City.
I only saw him once after that,
and we hugged as if we never
wanted to let go.

Janet Brice Parker, 2004
In memory of Jim Greenhaw