Start small:

pour a glass of wine like you mean it.

Toast to the black dog pawing through snow,

leaving tracks that look like hieroglyphs

for “almost.”

Outside, the trees lean conspiratorially.

Inside, the cat reads your mind

and knocks a glass off the counter.

You laugh—

but it sounds wrong, like broken glass,

or an old cassette tape unraveling.

The news came in last week:

Colleen’s gone.

Julie’s gone.

You’re still here,

dancing to a Beatles record

because grief won’t let you sit still.

The groove is a time machine;

the lyrics are a curse.

At some point,

you’ll stand on the porch,

watching a hydrangea fight

for its life in the wind,

and think:

This is survival.

This is all it ever was.