May Day. I left work today and took my normal train to the very last stop. "Walk past the cemetery," you wrote. I walked by an Arby's, a taxidermist, and an autoshop before my path was flanked by two graveyards. I held my camera strap, tracing the sky splitting light through a thicket of clouds. We walked to the highest point of the hill, past a crematory, past a crabapple tree, and past a man driving by listening to "You Sexy Thing" by Hot Chocolate. Did you say, "do you like this song?" If not, I replied, "I believe in miracles."
On your birthday, it rained heavily. We took train to train to a different cemetery and we were too late. I won't forget the first sip of the hot toddy I brought with me, the steam in the dark antechamber of the Greenwood archway thin and glowing. I ran to this lady of the grey sky, looked up, and later, walking in the rain in our baseball caps, saw her refracted in you.