To Robert, Who Became Roberta in Brussels
What can I say to you after all this time? You’re the one I admired the most, clever and cynical, with your adoring wife and Cleveland Heights apartment filled with enviable things: African tikis, fleece of sheepskin carpet on the hearth.
We were young and fiery then, the Sixties, and I marveled at the honesty of your words when you complained about those guys in Little Italy. "Racists all," you said. "I hate it but can’t tell them so because, in truth, I love the bastards. How can that be?" you asked. I searched for something wise to say, but failed.
And there’s the day the five of us skipped work for a round of golf and ball and other things, and though the smallest of us all, you won the match. I’ve always wondered how you managed that.
Now here you are, Roberta, at this reunion in the early fall, walking your old walk—well, gentler now—and calling my name with a hint of your signature smirk. Your wig, sandy brown, highlights of blond; your jeans and blouse subdued, your figure a little dumpy yet. I pet your German shepherd, who seems content. We talk about the Cleveland Browns and Updike’s novels as we used to do. When Peter, Paul, and Mary drifts from speakers on the porch of Mitch’s house to the picnic table under this cobalt sheet of sky, you roll your eyes and crack, "There are some things that never change."
You laugh, and so do I.