I don’t remember your leaving.
I remember your coming home—the argument I had with your parents, the bubble I felt around myself while among joyful families, the Shoney’s breakfast we shared before coming home to have sex on the kitchen floor. I remember the jubilant look on your face, your blue eyes glowing, like lasers, over cheeks burned by the African sun. I remember the eight-inch knife you slid under the driver’s seat of your car. I remember the night sweats and bad dreams and that you were losing hearing in your left ear.