Sometimes

he sits right there

in his desk chair,

eyes fixed

on the window

or bookcase.

I used to think

he loved the birds

and dreamed awake

of the stories

from before.

Sometimes

he stays too long

in a hot shower.

Usually he belts songs,

but there are days

that he does not.

I used to think

he loved to sing

but would come time

when his voice

needed to rest.

Sometimes

when we are together

he seems to hear

the sound of something

far away,

and he will stop

and listen.

I used to think

he could feel

the call of the world—

something deep

and beautiful

that nobody else could.

I used to think

it would grip him

with all the splendor

hidden in life

and hold him there,

wrapped in an awe

and reverence

I would never know.

It never occurred to me.

Not up until the very day

he was found

on a sandy riverbank,

just downstream

of the bridge

to the island.

They say it was a fall

of over two hundred feet,

that he felt no pain.

Sometimes

I think back

to all those moments

when he was drawn

so far away,

and wonder

where it was

he really went.