My arms have spun endlessly in the pitch of night, threading us into an inseparable web. Five under the same roof – like water to parched bones. The house alive with the sound of wooden boards under slapping feet, front doors slamming, bikes-a-jumble hitting concrete. Bellowing childhood. All this, comfort, like the hum of the dryer, or a light left on. I wake up razor sharp, holding your hand, blinking back light, drinking memories like medicine. Knowing all too well every chapter has an end. I try out the feeling of us as four. And then, as three. I set about the task of lifting the roots we’ve laid, without a knick, and carefully tucking them into boxes. My heart casts a thousand lines, trying to remember when the baby-turned-girl-turned-woman was able to look me square in the eye. But a thousand casts come up empty when it’s time to let go.

I’ll bury the song of it all. The color of the walls. The stoop where we sat. The exact click of your softly closing door. I’ll bury it all, like endless streaming light. Fuel for a long quiet night when I miss hearing you sleep through the walls. And the sea has become the space between us.