Byron smiles. His eyes are still blue, this time like the sky. The sky with the dachshund cloud. I remember one of the more spectacular sunsets aboard Fishful Thinking, when I sheepishly confided in Lily that I would like to fall in love again. How the words tripped heavily off my tongue with guilt. How even saying them out loud suggested a time after Lily. And I remember her simple response. “You will,” Lily said. We start walking. I start talking. “We met on a farm in the country when she was just twelve weeks old. She was gentle and kind and this lady called her a runt. Her father was
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