June 14

Six times I tried to remember the shape of her face.

The first five were almost right — close enough to be convincing, close enough to make me stop trying.

On the sixth, the black settled only on top, a ridge above ears I could not see, because they were turned away from me.

The rest was white — all of it, the way certainty is when you finally stop looking for where the edges should be.

She didn’t care how many times I got it wrong.