I am trying to be honest with you. To write it just how I remember it. True. The way mountains and forests and rivers are what they are and nothing else.
But when I look back, the light is distorted as if looking through a prism. Memory compounds into streaks of color.
He was here and then he was gone. There are moments in which he is alive and moments in which he is not, but they are all mixed up. There was a point I was trying to make.
There is the dappled afternoon light, patterns in the quilt intersecting the patterns in our clothes. I read out loud the scribblings in my journal deemed worth sharing, something about the shadows of semi trucks as they pass or the halos of clouds in the desert. …