The Human Puzzel


 The Human Puzzle


When spring turns to summer

         and the roses quit their early bloom,

         it is alumni-making time.

All over town students

         enroute to becoming alumni.

Spread through the community

         are older alumni

         coming to celebrate

         the anniversary of their becoming alumni.

They head to the hotel meeting-room

         guarded by the name tag table

         with undergraduate hosts who

         help with pinning.

Soon screams of delight

         come from the recognition

         after 35 years of separation.

Hugs and simultaneous

         questions and answers.

Everyone talking at once.

Glances at nametags

         to be sure this really is

         the best friend from years ago.

Excitement fills the room as

         each new arrival is greeted.

Do you remember the day that...?

Were you there when...?

How lucky you are not to have aged.

What ever happened to...?

You sure are looking good.

Remember Mr. Wilson falling asleep

         during my History report?

Who did you take to the prom?

Out come the old battered yearbooks.

Shared giggles at pictures

         and comments written

         so long ago.

Then the class memory machine

         holds forth.

Trivia becomes building blocks.

Questions and comments

         form a kaleidoscope

         of 35 years ago.

Each piece of the puzzle

         is soon in place.

The wonderful shared past

         is reconstructed.

What a happy past invented.

None of the pain of youth.

None of the doubts.

None of the teacher put-downs.

No memory of romances


Nor the telephone calls

         to friends for support.

No deaths of friends and family

Nor is this a place

         to remember parents.

Reunions are selective memories

          of the good old days

         when all was perfect

         and we were young.

Today that is the world

         we will live in.


Doug Minnis May 19, 2010



This was written on my 64th high school reunion date. We did not get together. We were faithffull for 50 years and each decade or so got together. Now we have two contacts. Each year I write a letter to fewer and fewer of my classmates. Each year we lose a few more. The second contact is through the class of'46 Memorial Fund at the Mitchell Museum in Trinidad