You and I are lonely birds. The last two laborers. Maybe we don’t always know who we are. Even our shadows melted together; we made up every polished stone in this mosaic. At first I didn't know how to live outside of the world we carved out: that astonishing garden of nowhere, those deep lakes inside a mother, the train track down your spine, the wet canvas landscapes we used to wander together. How do I keep from returning to the ghostly oleanders in our arboretum? They are bending back and forth, promising to open to me. What would it take to grow a garden in me? There are days I feel that empty canyon inside me, pulsing like a lighthouse and I miss the years before my childhood. When I was still a pinhead egg, buried in your side and we never were apart. Then after that. Every morning was chamomile and maple syrup, the color of your hair in the winter sunlight. Your careful voice like notes from an old record that float across a dusty room. You never did wash out of my clothes. Those things that happened, I had meant to move through them by now. But such a cold river of grief ran over me that I couldn't remember who I was. It was your voice that told me: this is who you are and pointed at my grief.