I came to the spot where she knew I’d go because she’d made it this way and only this way.
I am not a man, after all.
Ashen white are the trees that circle the thing she placed (or had placed) for me to see and I don’t know why, but I feel fine, just fine. She wanted me this way. Asked for it.
Begged.
Cloudless.
No. Very cloudy indeed.
I sit in the circle and the trees shroud me, blanket me in their doom, make me see. I open the lid.
A Folgers can. Full.
She called me once when I was doing it some other way to some other person. Just after. Like she knew. She was supposed to be in Argentina W/Maggie but that was a lie. She was home. Said she was in Argentina W/Maggie and was just checking in on me and seeing how I was doing and that she was sorry about how it all turned out and that she would get me my copy of The World According to Garp back just as soon as possible and that she was sorry and that when she gets back from Argentina W/Maggie we should talk.
I don’t talk to anyone anymore.
The grass where I sit is damp, morning damp in late afternoon because no sun makes it this far to burn off all that.
I reach inside and I feel around. She wanted me here. She wanted it this way. I feel grit and dirt and dust and silky slick ash that both coats my hand and doesn’t as it filters through my fingers and falls back into the can in the center of the circle of trees where both it and I sit.
She knew what she was doing.
Is that bone?
No.
That is bone.
It strikes me odd now, how it all is playing out. How I will be found when I am found. She had to have known. I wonder though now, if it’s her, or just someone.
The lid is plastic and fits snug.
The sun comes out or goes away, depending.
My ass is wet with grass and damp dirt.
This is how I will be found, with her.