She said All you have to do is tell it like it is. I knew this was much easier said than done because how can you be sure you’re seeing it like it is, the seeing the obvious prerequisite to the telling? But she had smooth skin with a wasp-waist and devourable shoulders and loved me simply for who I was, at least that’s what she kept telling me. So I believed her. I took her hand and followed her through the eye of the needle, somewhere along the way dropping my scales and began to see as she saw. I emerged from that night spent, blind as a prophet, finally pledging my love to her. In that declaration, like some drugstore fiction, the river whispered her name. She died that fall as early snow fell with a metronomic steadiness, her spirit rising to become a piece of the sun in God’s sky. Her parting words to me were Do not grieve for me. But this I could not do, and still cannot. I daily shake my fist at the sun, the impotent act of a remainder. I live on like this, like it is, bruised by her luminance, cursed by her vision. Triste.