still think about her sometimes. Her death still lingers. Although a part of me understands, I cannot help but see her as as a question mark, an ellipsis, a thought trailing off into daydream.

hey carry out the souls, one by one, drawn up out of the earth at night, each an atmosphere shining silver moonlight; a long parade along the ridge, each heavy footstep inspired or cajoled by the sound of a deep drum set to astronomy’s lonely rhythm, we watch from our distance believing ourselves to be safe, extrinsic to the parade and foolish.

The boy stiff with thick winter clothes tugs at my rust-colored sweater. I can smell the gingerbread on his fingers, on his lips. He says, ‘Daddy, please don’t go.’ But I have no children and the drum continues to pulse and we’re all so very foolish here.