One afternoon I get an email. I read it with a slow smile that I feel in my chest. Over the next couple of days I think of that email as a badge pinned to me, that only I can see for now.
She's a pink zig-zagging imp with a head of flaxen curls.
Language has logic, to an extent. To what extent, we wonder, staring at the spreadsheet in silence.
The photos show things that have always seemed solid and sturdy, like houses, floating or flattened with everyone and everything in them.
Rundown porches are veiled in pink blossoms.
From layers of fresh mulch and fertilizer, daffodils start to test the air in small isolated clumps.
A candle burns next to the photos of five people who were murdered in their beds; one of them was an infant, her eyes in the photo scrunched up in sleep.