I saw you last week. I thought you might say hello.
Maybe you thought I would.
I remember when our kids used to play together at the park.
I don't remember your name.
I remember your second daughter's birth, and that your husband was born at 32 weeks and turned out just fine. But I don't remember your name. Weird, huh? I don't remember your girls' names, either.
I wonder what we would have talked about, had we actually, you know, talked. It's not like me to not speak to someone I know.
Perhaps I was afraid. Afraid of the awkward "hellos" and the uncomfortable knowledge that we both have. I assume you know that Evan is dead.
Or maybe I was afraid I'd have another conversation like the one with another park parent. It wasn't really awkward. Just the skirting around a certain subject.
Evan? Evan who?
It's ok. I remember him, even if you don't.