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He’s thinking of our life before,
when all four of us lived here,
and he built chairs smelling
of wood and varnish,
and my mom made shortbread cookies
smelling of butter and
peace of mind.
He’s thinking back to Truffle’s squeals
when he was a baby, his first
words:
Feeeel-good.
He’s thinking back to our camping trips,
our guessing games in the car,
our snowball fights.
He’s thinking of my mom’s smile
back when she still smiled.
I know because I am, too.
* * *
That’s her, Billie.
She’s a spectacled siren, a rainstorm,
a chocolate fountain, a silent queen.
Billie doesn’t say much. …
But when she does speak, the world ignites
and explodes in clusters of honey and fire.
