Unfamiliar

The invitation came. She's getting married

back home, in May, in that old town.

I haven't been there. Seven years have buried

the place so deep I can't find it now.

I tried to picture Main Street.

The gazebo where we used to sit.

The image wouldn't form complete.

The details wouldn't fit.

The photo shows the gazebo.

Paint peeling in long strips.

It looks smaller. Did I not know

how small it was? Have my recollections slipped?

She's still there. Building a life.

I left and didn't return.

I'm not sure how to arrive without strife.

I'm not sure what I'd discern.

Could I go back to the wedding?

Would I recognize anything?

The place, the people, anything I'm treading

on—I don't know what it would bring.