Melissa remembers her brother daily, gone longer than he lived.
Grace celebrates the milestones her son can never get to, and those he did.
Each letter Bob receives, Mary Ann tells us, pokes another hole
through the tumor, and from a city hospital bed, someone won’t let go
of the phone even though she barely has breath enough to speak.
Last night I whispered, “I’m so glad I get to love you.” “Another day,”
she whispered back the moment we woke up. We were so close
we could see the lines of our lines, tiny tributaries
where one story ended and another began, old life fusing into new.
The devil’s in the details, but the angels live there, too.