In Bloom

The peach trees are in bloom and her birthday was last week.

They're vibrant and pink and remind me of cherry blossoms in Japan or DC. They almost don't look real; they're spatters of paint on otherwise bare limbs. Some modern artist randomly touched a wet brush to knobby wood.

I figure we'll have another frost before April, and those pretty little bits of pink paint will droop and drab and go sepia.

I didn't wish her a happy birthday.

Clinton was in office the last time we spoke, but I still remember how she smells. Her laughter echoes in the chuckles of others.

Grief isn't always about death.

It's absence.

I mourn alone with others every day, and today, the peach trees are in bloom.

I tell myself that I don't care that her birthday was last week.

Frost will come for those trees as surely as some lies keep me warm.