Second Child by Deborah Garrison

It is late. I am standing at the kitchen counter after dinner. I look out the window at the dark and suddenly, I think of you. My memory is traitorous. Sometimes I feel I have forgotten too much of you –

The feel of your arms as you held me.

What we whispered to each other on cold winter mornings.

The sound of your voice when you said you loved me.

Now and then, like now when the house is quiet and I am alone, they come without warning. Small things, odd details that no one but I could treasure. Tonight this: you laughing into my mouth as you were trying to kiss me.