i can almost see you

We turned our faces to the sun, rolled our shoulders back, chests open, spines straight. The warmth melted onto our skin. It felt euphoric after months of endless cold.

You got onto me for plucking at the mint for our iced tea.

“Grab the scissors and cut just above the leaf node.”

“Leaf node?”

“Where two leaves meet at the stem,” you said gently, like it was something I should already know.

I did as you said so your mint would grow back double next year. Little did I realize you wouldn’t be around to see it.

Now I pluck at it one leaf at a time, knowing it won’t grow back the same, and I feel guilt settle deep in my belly. I fall to my knees and sob, because why the fuck is a mint plant making me miss you so much today?

Your presence is everywhere here on the farm. I want, desperately, to get in my car and drive miles away to somewhere your memory can’t find me but I don’t.

Later, I’m sitting on the porch with my grandfather and I hear your voice. I freeze, momentarily stunned, until I look over and see him playing a video of you on his iPhone, just to hear you again. Just to hear your voice.

You are missed in great depths here on Earth.

I excuse myself and go inside. The house feels quieter than it should. Like it’s holding its breath. I climb into your bed. If I stay still enough, I can almost see you through the sheer curtains, out in your garden moving slowly, hands in the dirt, showing me where to cut so something might grow back fuller next time.