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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ At first, it was the mirrors~ their silvering betrayal, how they traded my sharp edges for something softer, like dusk forgiving the horizon. Then, the bones~ their quiet rebellion, the way they hummed an older hymn when I climbed the stairs, when I knelt in the garden, when I reached for him in the dark. But the hands—oh, the hands~ they learned the deepest alchemy: to hold my husband’s hand like a sparrow, to trace the map of his spine and call it home, to press against time’s window and leave no fingerprints, only warmth. And when the night comes, as it must, I will have memorized the stars not by their names, but by how they taste on my unapologetic tongue.
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