I owe you a eulogy. There wasn’t the chance to see you leave, to hold you while still full, or even empty – to bear witness to the bond between the two. The wind plays tricks on the mind: that banging shutter sounds like you letting the door slam. The leaves blowing off their limbs sound like you in the bathtub. In the morning I put a nail in the shutter and rake leaves. In the evening I take the nail out, let loose the leaves. Somewhere late in the night I will write the eulogy owed.