Stare out the window, past the geranium and dormant orchid, when washing knives.

There: the jolt of injury, a bead of blood, a shudder back into body and its unspoken hungers.

Part memory, part presence, the sharp perception of the one who was. In this kitchen. In this now tenderly suspending time.

Soon you will either drift into memory–her care of cooing, bandage, attention–or into life, turning on the tap to rinse the wound. 

Stay. She is so close, so nearly palpable, and you rise into yourself, alone and not alone, with and without. You are a sunflower or a startled doe or a crying child, and she is the air you breathe.