It’s connection, emphasizes the physician
as I pause my virtual training, go down
to the kitchen for late-night apple and cheese.
Through the window, I glimpse the sky
and, outside in bathrobe, slippers,
I snap a photo of the night,
a scattering of stars and the full moon.
Before sleep, I post the image to Facebook.
Next morning, someone I haven’t seen in years
likes my night. In our twenties, she and I
would finish our restaurant shift, sit drinking
chardonnay. Less lived in our bones back then,
she barely mentioned her college rape,
how she dropped out, after.
Instead, we vowed to see Italy,
live on pasta and wine.
But I started college.
I heard she went to rehab.
The night she messaged on Facebook,
she was grey-haired, sober 32 years,
smiling in her profile picture.
I barely knew the woman
with the grandchild on her lap.
Still, she remembered, asked,
Did you ever see Italy?
