Thai Nights

It was time, the day, the month, the year. So instead of going non-stop to New York, I side-tripped to Boulder. You know how difficult that decision was. You've been there. I had to see him, I had to. It was a cool day and the taxi took me just as dusk was settling in. Still, the light was bright enough to see that nothing had changed, nothing. As I walked up along the front path, they were just herding other patients into the side doors. I felt, not tension, dread. I hadn't called before or checked on anything. I didn't even know if he was still there. And when I asked for him by name, it was as if someone was standing next to me and I was listening to another voice. The split, the drift between what was and what happens from moment to moment is a permanent perception, a pervasive perception that grips all of my senses. They signed me in and took me far up the stairs to the top floor and down the long corridor to the end room, just as it always was. They let me into the room and closed the door. I was alone, he was there by the window sitting. I moved to his side and sat next to him. (Am I telling you anything new? How many times have you and I gone through this ritual, this rite?) He didn't look at me, even when I sat in from of him. His eyes looked through me. He looked well, the same as he looked two years ago. I talked to him, I whispered to him because I didn't know who might be listening. I talked to him about everything, a loose association of words in hope that one note might bring one note back from him. It didn't. It's the same, I'm the same, you're the same. Oh A., will it happen, will one day he not be there? I left without talking to anyone else. It made no difference. Will one day we not be there? And if not, who will see him?
Rune