Audio notes from this morning in the car:
Because I have no father now, I still shudder and break into tears at the sight of certain old men.
Because she suffers unknowable terrors, my sister fills her house so full, she cannot use the bathroom, her own bed, and sleeps instead on my mother’s couch.
Because I could not save my lover that long winter, I walked to the cold Susquehanna, but could not enter it.
Because I can fix none of this, I write these words instead as if they might outlast me. as if they might someday be read.
Because I married a man half my age, I try to limit my weeping to the shower, a cry box where I ponder all the years he’ll live without me.