by David Lee Garrison ’80
We remember classes, football games,
proms, and graduation, but we need
yearbook pictures on our nametags
to recognize each other. We are books
pulled from the bottom of old lockers.
Every five years we gather
to celebrate the end of high school
and pose for a color photograph
while moments from those four years
flicker black and white in memory.
It’s as if we are passing each other
in the halls again, only this time
we pause and huddle to record the moment.
we stand on tiptoes or puff our chests
or slip behind a friend to hide our girth.
There are faces missing—
some of us are gone, some cannot bear
to come back. We hold our smiles
for the cameraman on his stepladder
and squeeze together so everyone fits in.
by Kevin Prufer ’92
When the wheels came down over Miami
the stowaway in the landing gear,
half-frozen and unconscious,
slipped from the wheel well into blue air.
How amazed he must have been
to wake to that falling sensation
and the rapidly approaching sodium lamps
of the airport parking lot.
The couple that owned the car his body crushed
was astonished at the twist of fate
that brought his life so forcefully into theirs.
Their young son would always remember it,
how just then the cold shadow of another airplane
passed over him, how the bits of jewel-like glass
lay strewn across the asphalt
like the dead man’s thoughts.