lost

It's been a year today. The trees are blooming again, abundant white like debutante dresses. (I look up dogwoods. Are they dogwoods?)

Beauty and fragility, everything still temporary. What is eighty years?

How many years does a tree ring signify? (I find the word dendochronology.)

I search under your name, and there you are, in front of your piano in a sleek black sweater, looking amused, as you always seemed to be, at the attention. The picture hits my breastbone hard, jarring me (I look up whiplash).

I see you, but I can't hear your voice (I search, and search, and search).