i never knew you, but

i’m afraid to ask about you

because the truth might shatter the illusion

that maybe i wasn’t the only black sheep.

maybe you would have laughed at me in your head, or called me unrealistic, or maybe you would find the things i like- the things you did- hopelessly mundane.  maybe it would have been really awkward, maybe you would have been tired or irritated with me, or think i was trying to relate to you and failing. 

but maybe we could have talked about black holes and string theory, and rebar and tower cranes and etudes and literature and picnics on rooftops and how we always wanted to get a pilot’s license but where on earth would we put the plane.

but oh, i’m afraid, so i’m reduced to analyzing your bookshelf and reading and re-reading your obituary

and remembering that you used to walk down the road to watch the construction that went on around your house by the lake

after your mind was mostly gone- the time you got fed up and removed yourself, like i do, and you wandered in that same spot of woods

that is now a shopping center and even back then was dotted with barbed wire fences and little orange flags.

did you also feel lost in the immensity of the stars?

did you find other people’s stories fascinating?

did you, too, understand the beauty of the man-made structure?

what were you like as a boy?  did you ever go on adventures? 

tell me what i don’t want to hear.

i was born too late, and i lost you.