I’d thought forgetting was this inescapable release the way finally I could not help letting go of your hands and watching you fall, eternally, down the mountainside. For hours I’d held you gripped you so hard the bones shuddered in my arms but then the numbness began, spread through my hands into my shoulders. You saw and turned your face toward the distance, saying softly: “Let me go.” And I opened the frozen hooks of my fingers and you fell; a tiny blue coat and hat plummeting into the past. But something remained — was it just the bite of the wind? And because of this I’ve invented a small college; dormitories, offices, fenced-in yards. Here, one day, in some high-windowed room, the rememberers will assemble to fashion their oblique tribute. They will analyze the sentiments of mountain climbers, examine the remains of ropes and hooks, debate the techniques of descent. Discussion will lead to four scholarly monographs and, though inconclusive, will, unexpectedly, fill me with hope for two decades.