fish

They used to call me fish.

I have no idea why.

I only know I couldn’t breathe

in my small town;

I wasn’t the only one.

It’s been 35 years since I lived there.

The only thing I really miss

is the fried chicken from Uncle Nicky’s.

I try not to indulge in nostalgia.

I have few illusions.

There was one gathering

a few years after graduation.

It was tragic.

I won’t go into details.

For some people,

high school never ends.

I’ve seen one old classmate since then,

one of my closest friends,

working on campus—

a tradesman who used to be an artist.

Perhaps he is still.

Somehow I’ve heard the occasional rumour.

I know he was married

to one of the most beautiful girls in town,

that he got divorced a few years later,

that he still skateboards.

I know who he was.

I have no idea how.

Perhaps we all stay the same

in all the important ways:

the seeds of our flowering

the wounds that once seemed so deep.

I still have no idea why they called me fish.