You bought the house next door. We took walks up Smith Hill in dogwood season. This is how long ago it was: I could still climb Smith Hill while carrying on a conversation.
After you left my house and returned to yours, we said good night by flicking the lights in our bedrooms on and off, on and off.
You died in your late twenties, within weeks of our ending things: a congenital heart condition you didn’t know you had, until you did.
We were spectators in the grass at a softball game and got to talking. Later in the week you moved in.
