I could’ve gone anywhere after San Quentin. Any city, any direction. Left it all behind. But I didn’t. I came here. To her. I pull the picture out of my pocket, the edges soft from over a year of constant handling. Ari. Her smile in the photo is small, unsure, her fingers curled in like she doesn’t know what to do with them. My mom sent it over a year ago, tucked in with a few others. A casual update. She said Ari was the girlfriend Asher never really talked about.
