The last time I saw my first love was on my 17th birthday—thirty years later, a woman who looked exactly like her stepped into my yard

a river on a clear afternoon and mourned the same woman from our different angles, and after a while, that felt like enough.

I went back three days later.

I brought flowers. Wild ones, picked from the field at the base of the path, because Lily always said florists made flowers look anxious.

I sat beside the plaque for a long time. I’d brought the final continue reading …