Déjà vu

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.