A spoon left on the rest from her morning egg.
 
The calendar was wrong. It was nothing like Spring.
 
A field of headstones asks Have You Seen Me?
 
An aria, Puccini’s Nessun Dorma sung by Lanza, looped repeatedly.
 
A small black suitcase surfaced in a pond.
 
Close my eyes and the freeway sounds just like the ocean.
 
Unspeakable things can happen in churches.
 
The scent of freesias, chloroform.
 
She came home from school and kissed her mother.
 
The coffee had gone cold.
 
Daydreaming in Italian: chiaroscuro, baldacchino, sprezzatura.
 
The tree’s black arms hold her in the indigo lap of sky.
 
She was dead before they knew she was missing.
 
How ordinary this day was to be.