But it's hard to be sure. I didn't write all these things down as they happened. I wish I had. This Bob, Bobby Blake, was the only Bob I really loved, and it would be nice to remember more.
And don't be thinking I want to talk about old times with him. Can't anyway. He died a few years ago. But I'll get to that.
So some things are simply not in my memory anymore. Clearly I do not remember the day to day things between Bobby and me. We went to the same school, so there were day to day things. However . . . we are talking about 60 years ago. And if you think I liked writing that, you are wrong.
But some things stand out, and those I want to write about here. This I know: as soon as I write them, they will be fixed in my memory the way I have written them. Isn't that your experience?
Now. In the meantime, here is the poem I wrote about Bobby. When I was 40something.
The Wall
Bobby holds your wrists tight
to keep you next to him, wrenching free
you run but know he'll catch you. You like it,
though you're afraid. Father stands
just inside the back screen door
rubbing his hand over his bald head,
watching for you, wondering
why you're so long coming home from school.
What will you tell him? It can't be smiling—
Bobby held my hands, his eyes are blue,
he likes me, Daddy. It can't be that.
There's some kind of shame in love at age eleven.
You tell it this way, never saying Bobby’s name.
A boy held me hard against a wall, Daddy,
he grabbed my arms, wouldn’t let me go.
It isn’t all a lie. You wish Bobby
wouldn't follow you home. You know Father will
yell at him, frighten him away. You can only hope
Bobby will come back and love you after that, love you
three more years and kiss you by the wall.
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