I asked him about the old days,
when we were still so young,
naïve, hotheaded, silly, green.
Some of that remains, except the young part,
he replied.
I asked if he still knew for sure
what was good and bad for humankind.
The most deadly of all illusions,
he replied.
I asked about the future,
did he still see it clearly.
I’ve read too many history books,
he replied.
I asked about the photo,
the framed one, on his desk.
Here and gone. Brother, cousin, sister-in-law,
my wife, my daughter on her lap,
the cat in my daughter’s arms,
and the cherry tree blossoming, and above it
an unidentified bird flying
—he replied.
I asked if he was happy sometimes.
I work,
he replied.
I asked about his friends, did he still have them.
A few former assistants,
who have their own former assistants,
Ludmila, who looks after the house,
someone very close, but far away,
two ladies from the library, both smiling,
little Grześ across the hall and Marcus Aurelius,
he replied.
I asked about his health, his state of mind.
They won’t give me coffee, vodka, cigarettes,
won’t let me carry heavy memories and objects.
I just pretend that I can’t hear them
—he replied.
I asked about the garden and the garden bench.
When the night is clear, I watch the sky.
I can’t get enough of it,
so many points of view,
he replied.