I’ll tell them you were here, you say. I notice your eyes are different shapes – one like a pigeon, one like a fork. There’s movement in the kitchen: shadows, laughter. Nothing fits right, my shoes or tongue. I can see the crayon portrait of you hanging framed in the hallway behind you. I made your arms too long and thin. You’re barefoot, standing on one leg, scratching your shin with your toes. I wonder if you still keep the green silk flowers in your nightstand. I remember how, when you yelled, your whole body shook, and it seemed like you were crying or choking. In Iceland, you told me, the magic hour lasts for weeks. I dislike the way you said it, magic.