I apologized for driving you home while on acid, three years prior, when all I could see was the moon above the pasture. You had already forgiven me, and gone further than I, with heroin, speed, opium, whatever it was that made you stay close to that pasture. You pointed out the trees uprooted from the tornado that passed through after I left, and I could still see the acid moon above the roots, twisted, broken, sideways, the years all becoming one past, one night, with me still sorry I'd driven you home messed up, still sorry about the day I heard you smoked pot for the first time, the day Galen died, still sorry that I made you drive me to his wake, that I wasn't stronger for you, still sorry that I didn't make you my lover five years ago when it still made sense to. I look over at you and ask if you are happy. You are still that boy, not too grown, hiding behind a Rolling Rock, your waterbed, the skulls of little animals and the bird's nests that line your window sill. You hide behind your hands and eyes that try to love me now. You throw crabapples into the air and catch them on a stick, missing some. This is your answer. I get in the car, drive through that pasture, and get on the turnpike.