twenty may
five : oh-four p.m.

she is gone. she left while i was at class, train at two : thirty. when i turned my computer on, there were two new icons on my desktop. i opened the movie file. shots of that small town, everything i remember. scenes racing past and standing still, with words from this journal layered over the images.

and there will be new friends. ones who bake cakes and garden on rooftops and ride bicycles while wearing dinosaur costumes. we will stay up too late reading aloud and listening to spanish music written for children.