When she walks into your kitchen crying,
put down your half scrubbed ***,
turn off the faucet,
wipe the water off of your hands with a white dish towel.
Like her eyes are trying to dry themselves on her pale cheeks.

You wrap your arms around her
and let her cry into your hair.
You feel like a mother
comforting a child who has just lost their favorite stuffed toy.


Her grandfather just passed away,
and this is the first time she has left her house since that night.
The night she couldn't drive fast enough to say goodbye.

You don't wipe the tear from her jaw line.

You're afraid your water wrinkled fingers
will remind her
of him.