You died three years ago yesterday, and tonight I took the dogs out to the lake in the crepuscular light. There I found, writ in river stones, your name.

The sun was still salmon-colored on the mountains. It gave me the soothing feeling of not-so-alone.

I should have run, run so fast the grief could not catch me. I love the feeling of outrunning sadness, just breathing, the dogs weaving back and forth across the trail. But instead I smoked the half cigarette I found in the ashtray, as you would have done. I sighed with relief when I found it, a small tribute to you, and lit it, letting the smoke settle around me like sorrow.