19 degrees

Thanksgiving Eve, east to west. 19 degrees. The season of bracing winds and empty seats. Grief understands life in the sparest terms: before and after. Years like this, spent looking through a window into the past, at the sky, for signs. Sunsets like this one, or the first star, and then she’s there, ahead, maybe a year or a month or a day’s walk if you keep moving. Hope.

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