I was only there once.
Sean and I—judges at
a science competition in Louisville,
early fall, in the ’90s.
Afterwards, we traveled.
The trip was a bit haunted.
Maybe it was the mist
over the mountains.
Or maybe Sean’s confession—
his dead grandma
visited him regularly back in Seattle.
I don’t remember where we went,
only the strange things.
Sun sinking into toasted grass.
Black horses grazing.
Bear cubs on the road.
An old cemetery, an epitaph reading:
You above ground—
I was just in your shoes.
We grew closer on that trip.
I understood more
about his struggles,
and about his premonition.
We did not get another chance.
Whenever I hear Smoky Mountains,
I slip back
into that place
in between.
First appeared in Moss Puppy Magazine, Spring 2025