Free Knowing Is Not Enough by Patricia Chatman, P Ann Chatman, A Chatman Chatman, Walker Chatman Page B

spot?”
    “Of course.” I smiled. “Please, it would mean a lot to me if you came.”
    He gave in easily enough. “I can meet you. I’ll be there after I teach.”
    “That’s okay. We should be there for a while.”
    He nodded. “That’s all well and good, but when are you going to catch me up on the last year?”
    “If you pick me up on Friday, I can catch you up then.”
    “In a bar? How are we going to talk at a bar?”
    “No, we can talk a little at the house before we leave and then in the car. Trust me, there hasn’t been a whole lot happening on my end. You’ll be caught up in five minutes.”
    “All right, well, give me the five minutes you got—did you say Linda’s coming?”
    “Not two weekends in a row, but she and Mitch are going to go with me to this poetry reading. I forgot what night. It’s on my calendar.”
    He looked concerned. “Did you start writing again?”
    I frowned. “No, I haven’t.”
    “So what’s stopping you? You should have plenty of material from the last couple of years.”
    Rubbing my eyes, I leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know.” I yawned, “It was only a hobby anyway.”
    Sanford turned toward his computer, pulled up a document and printed it. “It was more than a hobby.” He pulled a piece of paper from the printer and handed it to me, an old poem I’d written shortly after we graduated from college. “You have got to be kidding me. How long have you had this?”
    “Since you wrote it—don’t you remember?”
    “I remember writing it.” I read on, paused for a second and looked at Sanford. “I don’t remember giving it to you. How did you get this?”
    “I have just about all of your old poems.”
    I finished reading. “That is crazy—I haven’t seen this in—wow, it’s got to be at least ten years.”
    “Close to that, perhaps a little more,” he said.
    I handed the paper back. “So how did you get them? You said you have more?”
    “Every time you emailed me one, I saved it.”
    Pupils dilated, I placed my hand over my open mouth. “When Jake and I moved, I lost track of them. I couldn’t, and still can’t remember where they are. I thought I put them all together in a binder—can’t find the binder.”
    “It’s a good thing I kept them then.”
    I smiled. “I’d say it is. Were they any good?”
    “I think so.” He smiled. “But I’m biased.”
    “I can’t wait to read them again. Hey, can you bring some when you come Friday?”
    “Yeah, I can bring all of them.”
    I waved my finger, “that’s even better.”
    There was a timid knock at the door. Sanford raised his voice. “Yes?”
    “Dr. Sanford?” It was a young woman’s voice.
    I stood up. “I guess that’s my cue.” He stood up as well and came over to hug me. I didn’t want to let him go, but the voice outside was waiting. I pulled away from him and headed toward the door. I grabbed the door handle, stopped short, and turned back to Sanford. “Before I go, how much weight have you lost?”
    “For a minute there I thought you didn’t notice.”
    I smiled. “Of course I did.”
    Sanford rubbed his hands down his chest and stomach. “I thought I would have to be like a girl and askif you noticed how much weight I lost.”
    Playful, I tapped his chest. “Goofy . . . you look good.”
    “Thank you.”
    I opened the door and walked into the seating area where a young lady with books in hand eagerly awaited her professor. Sanford patted me on the shoulder and whispered, “Did I mention how good it is to see you?” He walked over to the student. I turned and shot him a quick smile while I exited out of the main entrance.

Tuesday, still seated at my desk after work, I held the flyer in my hand for the poetry reading on Wednesday night. Initially, I’d asked Linda to go, but I was rethinking that invitation. Since my visit on campus I couldn’t get Sanford out of my head. I really wanted to go with him instead.
    Over the years