In the still moments I get lost in the profound grief, I’m submerged. When the sand and seaweed settles sometimes I can look up through the grief and once again see stars. I missed them in the dark. There’s so much distance between the ocean floor and the stars. I miss him. I miss her. It’s easier to miss her, she’s still alive. I move cautiously around Iowa City, as if she might appear behind any corner, I skipped Pride. I scatter when I think I might see her.

But, I imagine running into her downtown, stuck in a line maybe, dying to ask, So how are you?  I’d want tell her, yes I took her suggestion about the aquaponics, and no I’m not still a telemarketer. I never made it to Alanon but I found a grief counselor. I missed her when I was on womyn’s land under the strawberry moon, even as I thought to let her go to make room. I never found a queer friendly Christian denomination--it’s still too masculine prayer. While conceived male, my god’s pronouns are she/her/her’s. Why did you do it? Do you sometimes miss me?

               I’d tell him he was right about the first job I found, I could do better, and I did. I’d tell him I don’t drink anymore. Can’t drink anymore, how the crimson circling the glass makes me think of the tempest that put me here in the deep. I fear submersion more than anything else. I’d tell him I keep one of his hoodies that smells like campfire in the car with me, his rosary hangs over my dash. Did he know how to say it? It begins our Father, who art in heaven. Why did you do it? Are you sometimes with me?

               They both have begun to have the blurry edges of dreams half-remembered. Were her eyes blue? What was her favorite energy drink? How did he walk? What was a hug from him like? I want to lose more of her and hold tight to him. I want to forget the places she and I went, the things she said. The promises we didn’t keep. I want him to stay with me. Stay here anchored in my mind so deep I’d forget my own name before I forgot his face. I don’t think we get to pick which to keep and which to lose.

               But, I see the stars and think maybe things are possible again. Maybe someone will smile at me and I’ll have the courage to ask her to coffee. Maybe I’ll put the hoodies away until the Fall. But, not quite yet. Right now I’m looking at sky and learning to breathe underwater. When my legs are stronger I’ll surface, ready to be seen, for now I’ll look at the stars and remember the world is out there and it is so so big. Tomorrow, I’ll try again to get out of bed before noon. Try to make plans with a friend. Clean a little more of the house. Break down some more boxes for recycling and every time I’m in the car I’ll think of him and I’ll think of her and how they taught me the hardest lesson--how to live without them.