For Alice, Who Died When I Wasn't Looking

Years after we lost touch
(so easy to do so long ago
when letters and
long distance phone calls
were our only options)
I looked for you online
and found only a posting
that a woman with your name
who would have been your age (our age)
who came from Chagrin Falls
died in 1991

Saddened
I searched among my souvenirs
and found your last letter
on that groovy yellow stationery
and read of your new life
and new plans
and it all seemed so good

Did I write back?
I couldn't recall

Too much life had intervened
for both of us it seems

The years had passed
and there was nothing to do
but wonder
and remember
the small New York apartment
we briefly shared
and our excursions into
Greenwich Village culture
when we were young
and adventurous

More years passed
and again I thought of you
and looked online
This time I found more postings
more death records
and report of a suicide
a lawsuit against the gun seller
who said in effect
'she was sane'

But again I was left with
questions

Not why
I could understand why

Because despite the fun memories
(the John and Yoko film festival
concerts at Fillmore East
the night we ate too many
organic prune snacks
and had to run home)
I recalled your fondness
for dangerous men
your tales of sleepwalking incidents
and the anger that could turn
your apple-pie face
into a portrait of rage

No, I didn't need to wonder why

But no matter where I looked
I found nothing to tell me
of the life that followed
that oh-so-positive missive
(which I kept
along with the photo of us
arm in arm, smiling
beneath the sign
of the Blimpie shop
where we usually dined
and the one of you
posing as an angry
Kent State protestor
which I recognized
as an unfulfilled wish)

Was there happiness at all?
Did you ever get anything you wanted
besides that gun?
These are the things I don't know
and will never know
because I will not look for you again

One thing I've learned in all these years
of knowing and not knowing
is when to stop

And so I leave it here

I'm sorry for your pain
I'm sorry you are dead

And I'm sorry for myself
that I can never now recall
my life as your friend
without knowing that you
are beyond my reach

Dianne Thomas is a Detroit-based writer whose work has appeared in Octavo, Flashquake, The Threepenny Review, and other online and print publications.