“Poetry is . . . emotion recollected in tranquility.” ― William Wordsworth, Lyrical Ballads I found his obit on Google, hadn't seen him, barely thought of him in forty years since the day he loaded his car with half of everything – blankets, pillows, dishes, albums (we fought over who'd get "The Graduate" poster of Hoffman and Anne Bancroft's leg) – and drove off to I-didn't-care-where. Once, 20 years later I learned where he was from his buddy John and called. He still taught drama and directed summer stock in a small midwestern town. We laughed together, comfortable, finally, in our separate skins. Now an obit with pictures and two columns in the paper. A well-loved, prominent citizen, it read, wife, three kids, grandkids. He wrote a children's book and "left the town with memories of comedy and drama that enriched our lives." Our marriage wasn't mentioned. No need, I suppose – a youthful take off and crash landing best forgotten. But I wish I'd had a chance to say goodbye.