Over Apples

Sometimes I wish we could be casual acquaintances. That should I find you an aisle over in the grocery store, that I’d know we’d catch up over apples instead of spending the rest of my shopping looking over my shoulder. 

Sometimes you look like my nightmares. Other times, you look easy to say ‘hi’ to. 

Then if I knew we could catch up over apples, I’d probably tell you about how I’m getting my first apartment. Or that I got a degree in English Literature, as you’d always imagined I would. And it would be brief, maybe not enough, but maybe I’d be okay to pry open the curtains and let you in by the hair. 

From afar you look older, but  younger in regained innocence. Gentler. Mom always said her greatest hope for you was that time would make you into my grandfather, and it seems her wish may be granted. Know he, know you, how to weather alone.