This appears in a pre-2010 issue of Down in the Dirt magazine.
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He was at Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
and now he’s leaning against the window sill
at Borders while kids are making paper witch’s hats
and magic wands. My daughter has made a puppet
owl from a brown paper bag. She’s old for that,
fifteen, but even the kids in college are lined up
for Harry Potter 6. No where to sit so I take
another piece of window sill beside him. About
my age. I turn apologetically. We both blurt out—
this is a kind of occupational requirement, I’m
a pediatrician. Laugh. Introduce ourselves. Choke.
This is the man who almost had my life. My job
that is. Who defaulted and left me the only
candidate for the position. My children wouldn’t
be here. My marriage. My failed marriage. But
I’d never have married at all. Twenty-two years
of this work and it’s because of this man’s choice.
I’d been told he backed out. Failed to pay back
his loan with his inner-city time. He tells me no.
He had a sick pregnant wife in Chicago. Worked
in a tough clinic there then one here in Camden.
Didn’t get the credit but did the work. We shake
hands. He’s divorced. Misses his children—23 and 7.
Mine are 21, 17 and 15, I introduce him. His are
with their mother. We exchange cards. I can’t help
but think it’s another piece of fate. We’re both
single. We’ve done the same work, had the same
losses, same blessings. Maybe he’ll call me. He
doesn’t. Parallel lines don’t cross.
