The words will come to me later. I will find them after I leave you, a hundred miles down the road: through the skyhole the stars shine brighter. A reassurance, to fill the longing — or the accusation — of your silence. As if it is my job to know words and how to make it better. Your job will be to pretend the tree was never there. That our garden is the same this morning, crushed stems and twisted flower faces, and trenches from tire tracks. I will know what you want me to say but the truth is I regret the lightning. I regret the loss.
10 September 2001