Kristine tells
me she talks to Jesus
on bus rides to
Antipolo; she thinks
she understands
him now, acknowledges
his existence.
I thought, good for her,
she believes in
something. She began
writing letters
to a man named Elvis;
receives a couple
of his records,
asks to meet
her at a diner in Memphis.
I said, “Great,
are you dating John, Paul,
Ringo, and George
too?” But I cut her
some slack. People
make up things
all the time. She’s
the kind of girl
who takes off her
clothes in the car
while waiting
in the parking lot,
devotes time
for hunger strikes
thinking all
her protests were
for a greater
cause. I secretly
envied her, I wanted
to see and feel
everything she
imagined. She was
my best friend:
I put up with her
and she put up
with me. I was just
as crazy though
I tried to care for her.
She’d hold my
hand when she got
nervous. Not
long after, Kristine
disappeared. She
took off without
a word to any
of her friends. I hated her
for as long as
I could remember.
Life moved on, everyone
got older;
I’m not wiser, just
more forgiving
and happier
with my cat on weekends.
I hang-out with
Jen and Ann now, I dated
Daniel but we’re
just friends. Years passed
and one day I
was caught in the eye
of a Midwest
storm, driving in zero visibility.
I saw a woman
with a suitcase and umbrella
hitching a ride
on the road. I pulled over
but another truck
had picked her up.
I could’ve
sworn it was Kristine. Now I take
a second look
whenever I pass that spot,
with Round Here by Counting Crows
always singing in
my head.
“Remember
Kristine? You won’t believe it,
but I think she’s
in town,” I said to Jen.
She asked, “Kristine,
who? What
are you talking
about?” I tried
to make her remember,
but no luck.
I showed her a
photo. “There, that’s us
in college.”
She gave it back
deeply perplexed,
“There’s no one there,”
she said. I had
no proof, except how it felt
when I held her
hand. Always slipping,
I held her
hand. 
