I want to get a honey bee, below my ear, I tell her. It’s what I call her. She reminds me that I already have her name tattooed on my right forearm. I know, I reply, but I can’t help it. I love you.
Last night, I learn, she is sick. Her usual come fall please God don’t let it turn into pneumonia again cold. I miss her fiercely, wish to heaven I could be there with her, and dream of an inky moon and stars.