Almost forty years have passed since I was put into the Witness Protection Program.

All the criminals involved have now died. I have been informed that it is now safe to resume my old life. One’s identity is not like a Spring jacket, which may be put away and then reacquired.

That old person who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time is also dead. That young man who was moral, courageous and naive died long ago in a forest hideout.

My parents, who never were told anything, for their own safety, and with whom I rarely communicated and did not see for ten years, are also dead. Carol, my fiancee, who chose not to relocate to the opposite coast, is now an indistinct and distant memory. Only her eyes remain vivid, because of their clarity and color of indigo. I also recall her neurotic concern that one leg might be thinner than the other.

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World Refugee Day Day 171 of 2009 194 days left in this year

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