One Never Knows

The past is never  

“past”,

suddenly

without warning

it may surface

like a rubbing of indented writing,

indelible traces of

bygone days,

although often

specific recollections of

who and what

elude me.

---

A young man accosts me in the piazza

of a hill town where I had gone

in search of pottery for my shop.

Remember me?

You were my English teacher.

I’ll never forget the fun we had

when the book had us do,

what I guess you called possessives,

my and your.

I play with my balls,

You play with your balls.

You got through that lesson in record time.

---

Years ago, how many?

---

A Christmas card from California.

A tour of Italy with friends.

Orvieto. I fell on the steps

of the Cathedral and broke my  wrist.

None of us spoke Italian.

You called the ambulance

and helped me in the hospital

when I couldn’t understand a word.

---

Years ago, how many?

---

An unexpected  thank-you note.

Easter. Orvieto was crowded

with visitors from abroad.

All Italians too seemed

to be on the move.

---

I had no place to stay

and even towns twenty

or more kilometers away

had not a single empty bed.

You can stay with me, you said.

---

Years ago, how many?

---

I did manage to scrape through the narrow streets

with my rented car.

As I tried to find my way out

I continuously found myself

passing the same buildings.

You showed me how

to get from A to B

when I had gone astray.

---

Years ago, how many?

---

The school year was just starting.

Junior year abroad.

Sitting on the bus

in Amsterdam

not knowing anyone

I felt lost and alone.

You came, sat next to me,

and I soon felt at home.

---

Yes, years ago

paths crossed

and you and I went on our way

oblivious of the future.

It was simply part of life,

relegated to the past, or so we thought.

---

Yet time, that draws a veil

over yesterday’s events,

refuses to let go.

When we least expect it

a word, a tune, a color, a fragrance, 

will bring back yesterday

into today.