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The airport air smells like fresh fruit
as he greets me at the luggage claim,
the first unstale moment
we've shared in years.

He captivated me, once,
when I sat before him in 8th grade,
a boy lost in sin, listening
and trying to believe.

His voice sounds ever human now,
like Jesus was.
How sad, I think,
that he fears the inevitable with all of his strength,
and elects as his only remedy,
one book.

"So how are you?" he jitters.
I smile until he does, too.
I miss his voice
though not his words.

He throws my bags in his trunk;
then, for old time's sake, asks
have I found God?

I roll the window down,
noting how I miss cars without power locks,
look at the rain assembling
droplets on the windshield that resemble
so many tears.

And once he realizes
I'm pretending I didn't hear the question,
he pretends he didn't ask,
for both of us. For neither of us
wants him to hear me tell him
the truth:
I've found
it's okay not to.

Learn more about this author, M. Frederick Voorhees.
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