Same Age

I watched him do it —

the candy bar, the inside pocket,

the deliberate casual walk

toward the door,

hands too loose at his sides,

trying to be invisible.

He was maybe thirteen.

I was standing by the refrigerated drinks

and I watched him go

and said nothing,

and he made it to the parking lot

and then he was just a kid

crossing the lot.

My hands were in my pockets

walking back to the car

and something unlocked —

not him, not the candy bar,

but the specific way his hands hung

loose and casual and terrified

at the same time —

and I was thirteen again

in someone's front yard,

saying something to a kid

smaller than me

who just stood there and took it

because I needed him to.

I've thought about it.

I know what it was.

I've thought about it for twenty years.

His name is something I still know.

I don't say it out loud.

I don't know why I think

that does anything,

but I don't.