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are sometimes of the past
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A Black Memory
Deborah was an art student back then. She came to campus in the summer of '72. A father's daughter not far from home, yet at a large state school that eclipsed the size of her small western Ohio town. I remember the first time I saw her, black hair, dark brown eyes, a petite and compact body that seemed to say not quite a woman but so much more than a girl.
We became fast friends quickly. I was a sophomore, still close enough to my teens to have a goofy crush. I remember how I would be lost in her eyes, or engrossed in the way she filled out the halter tops and bell bottoms that formed the dress of the times. She was...well looking back on those days the word that still comes to mind is simply "wow."
We used to walk across campus together, sometimes, the lush green landscape surrounded by old brick buildings where we studied and learned. The evenings of sandwiches, dinners, and sometimes music in a lounge where Stylistics, Billy Preston or the Dells would play.
The days and weeks would pass. We were friends in a time of express relationships. She seemed frail, and just being around her reminded my of the way I was raised to respect young women. I used to wonder why I respected her and drew a line. I never seemed to want to make a move or press for more with Deborah. I would enjoy her company sometimes dance or stroke her hand. We would talk about so many things back then, civil rights, the war, and
a curious subject called 'Watergate.'
I saw her mostly in safe places, the quad, a class, the student union. We always enjoyed each other's company, and inside she always made me want to seek more. I just never acted upon it.
I think back to a summer when a college student did not have to want for free love. It was a time when America learned of break-ins as a political tool, and the Olympics learned of violence as political statement. Despite the events and the raw energy, I remember Deborah most of all.
Our one encounter happened in a dormitory where she sketched my picture as an art project. The product was more a caricature then an actual sketch of my features. I remember her work being done. We enjoyed a brief closeness that ended with a promise of more in the future.
With the fall, there were new friends, and relationships and then my attention turned elsewhere. I know I saw her once more in the fall of '74. She confronted me at a discount store where she was the customer and I was simply a member of the staff. She asked me then if it was true, that I was married and expecting a child. I told her yes and in her eyes I remember seeing the loss of dreams.
The marriage is long-ended, the son is an outstanding young man with his own life. As for the woman whom Deborah had become, well, I have no idea. The smile, the skin, that jet black hair, the probing eyes, the artist fingers. When I think back on the summer of '72, I remember a young woman from Lima, Ohio. I remember she was an Upward Bound student We shared some tender moments. For many years, she has been the one girl whose presence
reminded me that I was raised to show consideration for a lady's wishes.
It's amazing what you think about after 25 years, and what you remember about your life that might have been.
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or engulfed in the present's pain
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Admirer
It makes commuting easier
just seeing you there
we never talk, what would
I say
you read a book or magazine
you chew gum, these are
things I've see you do
each day
Always there, the seasons
change, you smile as the
metro man flirts behind
the window
Toward work from home,
we board, we sit separately
we pass the time until the
trains go
I try not to stare, and then
more people board, you
are the lovely vision in
my thoughts
We reach the city, heading
closer to wretched tasks,
our stop approaches the
train halts
We exit across a crowded
platform my eye takes its
daily mental snapshot
of you
I consider speaking but
words would change it all
I doubt that I would ever
want to
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