thread.
Found the garden club picture.
Checked the tiny gray time.
8:14 p.m.
The exact minute I had stood beside Kora’s hospital bed calling my mother while the phone rang and rang.
And because grief turns some people thorough, I checked Belle’s public story from that same night.
A wine bar.
Two glasses clinking.
Date night with a heart.
Same hour.
Same earth.
My daughter burning with fever in a hospital bed while the two women who could have come were lifting glasses for pictures.
I didn’t scream.
