August 30
I went swimming, and I felt you in the water, holding me upright. I wouldn’t have thought you would spend the afterlife in a swimming pool, but I’m glad you were with me.
September 2
At your funeral I wore that white lace dress you like, and baby’s breath in my hair. You would have loved it, seeing me in white one last time.
September 4
Your mom is letting me leave books in your room. I left poetry books, because I know how much you believed that I would write one someday. Keats and Rumi: long-dead writers who still teach us about love. Maybe what we had (have?) can be immortal in a way, too. I also left an aphrodisiac cookbook, with pictures of naked women covered in chocolate and men suggestively holding fruit to their lips.
