Left behind

I looked up briefly from my toast and his eyes caught mine.

I had agreed to meet him for breakfast on that last Sunday morning at a diner on University Avenue. I can’t recall the name of the place or where it was exactly, just the stench of grease and the cheap, jagged aluminum bezel of the table butted up against the window looking out at the busy street.

I have not seen his eyes the past twenty-nine years but I remember them from that day, looking sad and lost. He did not know where he was going or how I felt about him leaving. I think he was scared I thought of him as a failure for being kicked out of his house and away from his life without a fight.

I didn’t. Truth is, I felt nothing.

I remember that moment in flashes, like waking from a dream, grasping at the wisps, trying to figure out if it really happened. And then they were gone.

When he left, he did not take any of me with him. He left me behind him, like worn socks and crumpled newspapers.