#103

Stephen's genes: his mother's well-bred hands which held him and held books open as he slept, his youth by his mother's mother led inside of resonant New York lobbies. A picture that his grandfather showed: a troop of men unclad round a bathing-hole in Deutschland, their guns in single file near the picture's fore.

Oh, would that we were poor again, young again, and free. I remember (he remembers) that day - our first - of kindergarten. The walls with letters dressed as men; and at each square table blue, and red, and emerald blocks. Corey had his "aint's," his "we's," his dirty mop of hair - and knees impatient to move. And I, effete, a stillness, empty head and opened eye - I longed to read aloud for all assembled there. In a corner together in gym class, we crouched as games of dodge ball, kick ball, football played upon the schoolyard's fenced-in concrete.

But he was anxious, elsewhere, to run, to shout or duck, to point or to turn. Eager, we were, for something, but of different pedigrees. My gaze searched in each crowd for his: at the clamor of recess or those restless gatherings of classes on the creaky gymnasium bleachers. I caught it always darting, watching or fearing for someone's entrance, overdue. And then at my side he'd sit with his knees to his chest, he'd say "darn" or say "jesus" and laugh.

When Stephen walks with friends to Bob and Barbara's, he is there (perhaps) bent over a beer at the bar. Twenty years later, and how will we find him? A stubbled upper lip, handsome face with - already - weary eyes. Stephen cannot hold his gaze for long. It is not a mirror, not an invitation, nor might it neither be a question, if a question imples an answer, ready for it, waiting.