I walk out to the white edge of the wedge of winter. Around me, silver glitter, and accusations from the cold. That in shutting my windows tight to him I let comfort grow in my soul like a tumor. The beasts of burden are now relaxing at whichever lake your family did or didn’t go to in the summers. My soul sips lemonade at the table she has covered in dried baby’s breath. But I stand bereft at the edge of winter, calling his name beyond the white boundary into a summer I cannot see, but I can hear its electric hum.
