The memory always begins

with the soft knocking on his door,

blending with all the accumulation

of desire,

of wanting to be

exactly where you are,

and ignoring the nervous wondering about

how awkward this might be,

all the possible combinations coming together

to erase the moment when you feel the tender touch

of his skin on your skin….

His Mother was visiting!!

Yes!!

and someone else,

a different, hopeful old friend

with “a history” with him!

Laughing with his mother over chai-spice

as though it was time for afternoon tea

rather than closing in on late-night TV!

And an hour before that knock,

his ankle sprained off an edge of the curb

as he finished his nightly run,

he laying on his bed,

his foot wrapped in ice,

elevated on a pile of pillows….

(who did the honors? The friend?)

You

standing in the hallway

stumbling your words over each other,

to his Mother, smirking in the door-way.

You

beside his bed,

arranging the pillows,

(instead of…. well….)

You

bringing him a quickly warmed

bowl of chicken noodle soup.

The bewildered look on his face…

You

speeding away after an hour’s mortification,

and nervous laughter

with the hopeful friend and the Mother….

You

screaming in your car,

“Oh My God!!! What was I thinking!!!???”

If only you’d called before…

Two hours earlier!

The day before?

No!

The moment had arrived

and demanded your action!!

Hesitation would have quashed any determination…

to be there…

in the hallway,

in his room?

in his bed??

and now you’re speeding away

from the scene of the catastrophe,

your mind incapsulating the moment

into a chunk of amber,

capturing the frozen, translucent hope

for a moment that might have been

but never would be.