113. THE HANDLERS

THE HANDLERS
Names fall like leaves from a tree -
people saying this or that.
'There's not a moment to lose, he was
so sad when last I saw him.'
Someone put the whisper in the suitcase,
the two mints in the backpack, and they
were off : 'we're packing shoes for Valparaiso,
new lineaments for Kenya, and even bottled water
for when we hit the Rhine.' Everything at that
point was so very simple. This girl, Anya, I'd
known since seventh grade. Her parents had
been refugees from Iceland or Belgrade,
somewhere having trouble holding
people in. Her traveling companion now,
some weary guy named Dieter, had entered
like a boxer from a storm : all brawn and sweat,
ready to fight again, intent on making his
presence felt. I really never knew what she
could see in him. He pulled out a picture
of a house and said 'this is where we're going
when we're done.' They'd be traveling for eight
months. 'Good for them' I thought to myself,
'nothing can keep them here.' We shook
hands, they smiled, and we were off;
two different directions, but
off nonetheless.