On a Visit to Pittsburgh

Anne Randolph

I meet, after years of separation,
my best friend from childhood at a museum.
Brown bangs threaded with silver,
she wears a hot pink scarf, lights up
the grey day, dark eyes sparkling.
Our words become shovels,
unearthing children’s lives,
the wedding this summer at a winery,
50th high school reunions we aren’t
attending, her mother’s health.
Words fly like flocks of doves
crossing mountains in a painting.
But then I start to sink as if in a fog,
embarrassed I don’t remember her wedding when
she begins to outline her 40th anniversary
trip to Alaska. I remember only the face
of her father-in-law, but nothing else.
When she looks concerned, I summon
courage, ask if I attended her wedding.
Her face relaxes into a smile.
Yes, she replies, you were there.
I tremble, having discovered
what I never lost.