*Eric* 

Thursday morning, I kneel beneath the tree in my yard, where the roots twist like ropes, and my heart still holds the memory of her.

I remember the way Hattie's flame--red hair spread out on the ground last night beneath this old oak tree, the stars barely visible through the branches. Hot summer air threaded with the scent of lavender and earth.

Everything we'd tried to hold back came rushing out in the quiet, in the way her lips found mine. We lay ...