April, Tuesday

The nurse brought tea we didn't drink. My father, who had taught me to throw a curveball, to tie a bowline, to bury the dog we'd loved, asked what day it was. I told him Tuesday. He nodded, as though the answer settled something. Outside, the magnolias he'd planted the year I was born were opening, huge pale fists. I said, Do you want me to open the window? He said, I want you to tell me the truth. I said, It's Tuesday. It's April. I'm here. The magnolias you planted are out. The dog's buried there. I love you.