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“I remember it because we were in class together.”
“That’s right.” Somehow Wendy had forgotten that Kerry had been in the class where she’d first workshopped that particular poem.
“But no, I remember it because it was anamazingpoem. Really. I could probably quote it to you right now.”
“That’s okay.”
Kerry laughed. “Anyhoo, this is totally random, but it made me think of you and that poem. You know I’m at Kokosing College, right? They do this aspiring writers’ conference every August and I’m doing all the admin for it this year as part of my work-study. And one of the attendees is named Thomas Graves from New Haven, Connecticut. Wasn’t that the name of...?”
Wendy didn’t need to think too hard back to the poem she’d written. The first line had been “I met a boy named Graves out on the sand / By Hampton on the Sea.” And in at least one version of the poem she’d dedicated it “To Thom.”
“Yes, I did know a kid named Thom Graves a hundred years ago. What makes you think—”
“You told me about him. Don’t you remember?”
“Kind of, sort of. What did I say?”
“You told me you lost your virginity to him.”
“Yes, that’s true. I don’t remember telling you that, though. I didn’t say it in class, did I?”
“No, but I think the class probably knew. Just from the poem.”
“God, that’s embarrassing.”
“So, do you think it’s him?”
“Who’s ‘him’? The Thom Graves who signed up for your conference? I don’t know. I haven’t seen him or heard from him since we were fifteen.” Wendy was trying to sound blasé about it, but she’d never stopped thinking about Thom and even suspected that was why she’d written the poem about him. The act of putting it out there had possibly brought him back to her. Like a conjuring trick.
“I have his application here. He graduated from Mather College last year, so he’s our age. He lives in Connecticut.”
“Well, when you meet him, you’ll have to ask him if he knows me.”
“Didn’t I tell you? My dad moved to Italy, so I’m going there for the summer.”
“Oh, lucky you.”
“It’s not as glamorous as it sounds. I’ll probably have to work somewhere while I’m there, but hopefully it will be a wine bar filled with cute boys. You’ll just have to come to the conference yourself to see if it’s the same Thom Graves.”
“You know I’m married, right? You came to my wedding, remember?”
“I’m not saying you should have an affair with him, but I thought you might be interested.Sorry.”
“Don’t worry, I’m just giving you a hard time. And I’m touched you remembered my poem. Maybe it really is him.”
“I have his contact information if you want it?”
“I’ll pass,” Wendy said.
“Okay. I’m done now. You should come visit me in Italy when I’m there.”
After ending the phone call, Wendy went up to her bedroom closet and pulled out the cardboard box that contained the few things she’d kept from her four years in college, among them the literary review that had published “Graveyards.”
She reread the poem, a slightly modified Shakespearean sonnet. The final couplet of “Graveyards” read “Because the world has gone to bed / I learn to kiss his ghost instead.” She remembered how pleased she’d been with it at the time, how clever she thought it was that there was no actual mention of graveyards or cemeteries in the poem, and how excited she’d been when it was picked for publication in the magazine. But mostly she thought about her belief at the time that maybe the poem would bring Thom Graves back into her life. It was why she’d written that uncharacteristic poem. But it hadsomehow worked. Despite what she’d said to Kerry on the phone, she was certain that the Thom Graves attending the Kokosing Aspiring Writers’ Conference was the same Thom, her birthday twin. The future was rapidly unfolding in her mind, and she made herself stop thinking about it. She hadn’t written anything since graduation—at least, nothing besides diary entries. How would Bryce feel if she traveled on her own to a writers’ conference at the end of the summer?
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