Afghan

One day, I won’t crochet, or run, or walk or sleep without you. The owl returns to its crevice in the picture window tree trunk view from our backyard. I’ll be alone and homeless and foraging through garbage cans for my next meal, crazy as a loon. In my dreams, I am already halfway there, foraging through the remains: pictures of my husband at a carnival when he was young, well, and alive, toy guns inside a plastic red toy briefcase when my son trundled his dead grandparents’ things through a grove of orange trees, still safe and sound, untouched by Death’s random markers.

After midnight, I listen to the rain outside.

I’m scared.

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