I remember nights in Alma, where we first fell in love with the world. Us, in our tiny room with the dinky little hotplate, cooking ramen and hot dogs or whatever we could get at the grocery store for under a dollar. Deep, quiet evenings on the porch, swatting at fat bumbling June bugs and petting the neighborhood cat; talking about nothing, about everything, until the stars emerged one by one along the river in the night sky. We would make our way up to the highest point on School St. and lie down on the dusty gravel road to count satellites, searching for Aquila, slipping in and out of consciousness as the bright lights burned overhead.

At the first pink of dawn, we walk down to the pier to watch gruff, salt-weathered fishermen bring in the first catch of the day. I press my forehead against your bony shoulder, sighing softly, willing myself to sink into the warm silty sand along the shore. In a town where the dead outnumbered the living, I found peace of mind.