I settle on the ground, gently lift his head, maneuver my legs beneath it, and cradle his face in my arms. With my shirt and hot tears that won’t stop falling, I bathe away dirt and blood and clean him tenderly. Harsh, forbidding, beautiful face. I touch it. Trace it with my fingers, over and over, until I know the subtlest nuances of every plane and angle, until I could carve it out of stone even if I were blind. I kiss him. I lie down and stretch out next to him. I press my body to his and hold on. I hold him like I never permitted myself to hold him when he was alive. I tell him all the
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