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 high school 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.