Ronnie stepped off the bus and flew thirty feet, right before my eyes. By the time he landed, he was dead. Fifty years later, the events are still in slow motion in my mind—but backward: first a thump, then a laugh passing by, then he’s leaning over the seat, cracking jokes. We run through the door when the last bell rings; at recess we’re playing tetherball. We solve the problems on the board, rub the sleep from our eyes. We greet each other in the hallway, another day with a friend begins. I wonder if I left something important out. Could I have laughed at one more joke, played one more game? How could I know I’d remember that day as the day we ceased being children.
dry east winds . . .
a tumbleweed rolls
toward the setting sun
First published in The Haibun Journal, 3:2—October 2021