All fall, flocks of geese crashed into our pool at sunrise, bathing briefly before moving on. Recently fifteen, I’d been learning to drive. (This was before you died). Nowadays, I relate to my body the way my body relates to driving someone else’s car in a new pair of shoes: a mind in an unfamiliar mechanism, held captive by movement and time. The past reaches my dreams like snow blown off the top of a mountain reaches the next peak–thinner than itself, and yet, still itself. Is anything unnecessary as like or as when aimed at an evening Arizona sky? That I can still be devastated by beauty gives me hope. I remember the propaganda pouring from your living room TV set, I remember your failing body rising to my high school graduation, I remember taking my pain for granted. (You survived that disease, died of another). Nowadays I sleep into my next life as I hug my blue stuffed rabbit. When I’m alone, I know that grief migrates–I, the cold pool it rests in, before moving on. On my way to another country with what remains of our family, I think, If only you were here, I’d jump out of the plane and float onto the distant water on the tender wings of clouds. Grief moves. I move. Sometimes we intersect, like a formation of birds flying beneath contrails; both of us gone before tomorrow, emptiness and quiet in our wandering wake.