<p>Part II</p>
<p>Lurking behind the five-o’clock shade and milk mustache was that same familiar face from decades ago. </p>
<p>Decades ago we sat in our blue gowns and mortarboards. He swapped seats with someone, despite the directive to sit in alphabetical order. Inching up to me, he leaned in and touched my hand. I squeezed as he whispered to me “I’ll be at our 10th reunion. Will you be there?” </p>
<p>Looking into his eyes, I immediately replied in the affirmative. He smiled and squeezed my hand. </p>
<p>And there we sat, hand in hand. The announcers were still in the Cs. No worries, and no rush, since he was next to me. </p>
<p>“I can’t believe it. It’s been a whirlwind. An exhilarating one. I’ll miss you, and your rule-breaking antics – skipping statistics; swapping seats – you are quite the bad kid” I tease. </p>
<p>Although he is gazing toward the announcers, I can tell he’s smiling; I can see his faint laugh lines. He turns toward me – suddenly – and is all laughs, as if I had executed some perfect punch line. </p>
<p>But the broad smile suddenly disappears. I sandwich his hand with both of mine.</p>
<p>“What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>“Nothing! Well, there’s something I always wanted to tell you, or, more precisely, finish. I’ve always wanted to develop that bird metaphor with you. I now know why the caged bird sings. Your song – prose and poetry – is so beautiful; it captured the melancholy of your existence and resonated with me. And there is no better feeling than knowing that there’s just someone who cares, who’ll read, comprehend, and understand all your angst. But we were caged birds. In adjacent cages. We’ve since escaped our cages. You opened up to me, and I to you, through song and otherwise. Your tested your wings; I tested mine too. Now, you’re ready to migrate. I won’t clip your wings! Spread your wings far apart, and take flight! Seek out the esoteric! Find joy in the new! Suck the marrow out life!”</p>
<p>He shifts in his seat, but his melancholic gaze is steady. </p>
<p>“Enjoy college! Although we may be separated, we’ll always return home each holiday! Birds, do, after all, have a strong sense of home; birds were often used to carry secret messages during war because they could not only deliver the messages but also return home. Think of that! Wouldn’t that be romantic – if I sent you letters via carrier pigeon! In any case – maybe during your senior year, I’ll show up in a local Starbucks, and just sit at a table, and wait for you to walk in. And if you recognize me, and if memories of all our exploits and conversations come to mind, then perhaps I am that one special person of yours. If you don’t, no worries! You’ve found your wings and home lies elsewhere for you. I’ll still be happy because I’ll be able to say that I, in part, helped you find your wings.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want us to drift …”</p>
<p>My name is called. </p>
<p>From then on we occasionally communicated, and even met up a few times. At first I was so eager to share with him what college was like each and every single day. Later, however, my interest subsided; there was just too much to explain without him actually being there. Plus, I had other people – friends – occupying my mind. Girlfriends, boyfriends, general friends, and of course, teachers’ assistants. </p>
<p>He similarly drifted apart. It was as if we were stranded at sea. It was like the movie Titanic, only worse, since in the movie, only Rose survived to face the continual assault of life. Jack escaped. It was as if we hung onto a single plank for dear life, but our plank split, and we each hung on to separate pieces as the chaotic rolls of the tide swept us apart. I cried, and cried, and cried to Poseidon for mercy, but no one listened.
On the eve of our 10th, I had long since fallen out of touch with him. I didn’t even know what state he lived in. That is, if he even lived in the United States any more. But I did remember our promise. He always had a special reverence for promises. </p>
<p>I had prepared all day for our 10th. I almost decided to wear my prom dress, for old times’ sake. I eventually decided on a more classy – well, conservative – turquois dress. </p>
<p>Would he recognize me? Would he be … different? Where would he be in life? </p>
<p>He never showed up. At first I thought it was a fault of my own, not recognizing him. I looked around all for him. I asked around all for him. No one seemed to remember him from high school. It was as if I was the last person who was aware of his existence. “Who?” people would ask, half-inquisitively and half-confused. “Nope, never heard of him.” </p>
<p>Perhaps it was all a dream. Perhaps he was a figment of my imagination. Perhaps my fading memory had transplanted a character from one of my stories to my real life. Perhaps it was all just an idyllic dream. I mean, at some points, it – he – did seem too good to be true. Perhaps I was diseased. I shudder as I recall my high school biology class. No, it’s not the memories of the IAs that are bothering me this time; it’s the presentations on all those genetic disorders, from Alzheimer’s to Bloom Syndrome to Huntington’s. Perhaps I had one of these disorders and I was just hopelessly confused, and he lived only in the realm of my stories. I break out in a sweat as I remember my philosophy class. Perhaps we really can’t be sure of anything other than ourselves. Perhaps solipsism is the only valid philosophy. Or perhaps esse est percipi (to exist is to be perceived) – as soon I turned around from that “bye” and that last peck on the cheek on June 6th, 2013 – he ceased to exist. </p>
<p>I can finally have a measure of reassurance now. That day in the coffee shop – I knew it was him. He existed after all. </p>
<p>And now I overwhelming know that he exists. </p>
<p>Or existed. </p>
<p>It is 2035. Our 10th was twenty-two years ago. My assurance of his existence almost faded until I “met” him in the coffee shop 9 years ago. And just a few weeks ago I received the ultimate confirmation.</p>
<p>A person had gone skydiving with his instructor. The skydiver’s name was ostensibly Okonkwo. And just before when Okonkwo was supposed to pull the pin to release his parachute, he told his flight instructor that had finally “figured it out.” That he was truly happy, because of “birdie,” that he was “ready,” that he wished the “unfortunate circumstances” he was trapped in were different, but that nonetheless “this is it.” </p>
<p>A “complete nutcase” the Minneapolis Times had concluded. </p>
<p>But I concluded differently.</p>