For Katie
Looking at the water, it’s quieter. You can hear the slow flap of ray wings, a beluga whale smoothing the water, the pulse of jellyfish, crown shy and boneless, like the friend I didn’t call, and then couldn’t, because she died. When I heard the news, I thought of how you and I were moms together, our garden variety lives weighty like toothbrushing or putting the kids to bed. Just today, I remembered when I planted echinacea and motherwort from your garden into mine. A whole chicken can dissolve in the stockpot before you notice. Sometimes, we, too, go to tiny murky parts. Ada’s dad wouldn’t let the grandkids eat carrots because he choked on one once. The winter he died, you gave her a prism to hang in the window. Every cell that was once you is now thunder. The last time we texted, I asked you to go on one more walk before I moved away. You were visiting your in-laws and said you would absolutely let me know when you were home. That was a few years ago, which happens sometimes. You were the one who told me you took your kids to this aquarium every winter. That despite the crowds, it’s worth it.
