Spend at least 20 minutes sobbing somewhere 

sort of private—a public restroom stall or your car

in a Starbucks parking lot. Check your red eyes

in the mirror before you leave. Avert your gaze

from anyone you pass. Fake smile. 

Drive home, flipping frantically through radio

stations and shuddering at a Tom Petty song. 

Flip the sound off and move through traffic

in silence. The air will feel heavy, foggy even.

That’s to be expected. 

Once alone, find the bathroom again—yours

this time. Assume the position: back against

the wall, knees bent, arms crossed, head down.

Struggle for air. Scream if no one’s around

or even if they are. 

Order food that you won’t eat. Field texts

from peripheral people who heard through

a grapevine that you’re shattered. Wonder

how they know. Flashback to the morning,

the quiet before.

Get coffee with someone who knows.

Cry even if she doesn’t. Accept the shock

of the barista sweeping the floor. Dial 

their number one last time. Find a sweet

agony in a voicemail.

Wait for a letter or a knock on the door—

something left behind. Receive only silence

and unknowing. Catalog every memory

in a Word doc as it comes to you and then

delete it all. 

Attend a memorial and hold it together

for a while. Ruin the sleeves of your sweater.

Realize you dreamed these moments once.

Get Mexican food after with an appetite

you thought you’d lost.

Dream about them for the first time. Wake

sobbing for the first time. Look askance

at everyone, wondering who will make

their exit next. Always be afraid of losing

everything.

Pass someone on a downtown street

who looks like them. Lose their photo.

Write three essays, a dozen poems, half 

a novel about death. Find their eyes

in strangers.

Hold your best friend as she scream-sobs

on her apartment staircase. Resent her

for wanting to die. Resent yourself 

for feeling resentment. Imagine another

funeral. 

Almost let the anniversary pass without

marker. Almost forget. Promise yourself

you’ll visit. It’s been too long. Remember

there is no one there. Swallow. Sigh.
Fall asleep. 

Dream of them again. Wake before dawn,

staring at the ceiling. Move on for a while

before returning to pick at the scab. Laugh

now and then. Lose others to other things.

Cancer. Age.

Attend more funerals. Stack your griefs.

Consider burning the black dress

in the back of your closet. It will get worse.

Everything does. But you’re still here,

and though sometimes that feels like a fluke,

it’s something.