What I’m learning about grief is that
it comes and goes, like the shadow in front of me
on the afternoon sidewalk.
An addict is an actor, able to look you in the eye, smile, and lie so convincingly that you begin to question yourself.
I pack a thermos, 2 cookies, tart apple slices that will later smile at you from a bag—My noontime missive, a text of seduction.
Boots from my son’s eighth grade year,
outgrown far faster than the heart-deep
humiliations he bore for being gay
that I could not protect him from.