Traces found and
the sound of her voice
still does what it did before
and you're tempted to call her
or send a message but you don't
because of where she's living now
which is not in this world you're trying to
dwell in knowing you don't live there anymore
either. Killing time in the dollar store and the woman
in front of you is ordering balloons - three hearts and
a smiley face - and you talk to try to feel human asking her
if it's her little one's birthday. She smiles, says no, it's her friend's
birthday. She's in a coma. This lady's birthday is also coming up, Thursday,
and the two always celebrated together. They're not yet 25, you're thinking.
Happy birthday, you tell her, you're a sweet friend. Yeah, she says, thank you.
I found three voice mails in the trash left months apart. One was your easy open smile asking a favor with detailed instructions. One was your grief, the wrenching sound of a heavy heart. And the last one was your distance.
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