We’re going to die. You, Bean. Little eyelashes and fingernails. Tiny unfurled soul. All of my alternate lives, spinning out away from me like Frisbees. A playwright in Brooklyn with well-watered house plants on my windowsill. Me and your father at a party in LA, standing by a pool that is lit up by purple and pink lights. Ice cubes clinking in our glasses. Someone is laughing at a joke I made. In my backyard, on my knees, gardening in the sun. You’re right next to me, little hands in the dirt. I could have been anything. Gone anywhere.
