Will someone someday read this and know she was beautiful and good and kind?

Cartoons taught me to laugh at violence. To see it as pattern, rhythm, inevitability. But back home, the patterns were bloodier.

As I drift to sleep, I wonder who the real me is and who’s the imposter.

There is a backstory here, of course, to how they became Husband and Wife.

It’s a question I have long thought about and resolved. Of course, I’m Black, I think.

I return to the perfect green field, the perfect blue sky, where it feels impossible that anything has ever ended, or ever could end.