She asked at dinner eyes on her bowl—

She asked at dinner, eyes on her bowl—

fork balanced on the rim, not touching food.

Were we still going? The question, whole

and quiet. She wasn't in a mood

to push. I said the weather's cold.

She nodded. Put her fork back down.

She's eight. Somehow she'd already rolled

the no inside herself. No frown,

no held breath. Just her face

kept low, the fork, the careful

return to eating. The grace

of a kid who makes it bearable.

I promised her in July.

The tent was in the car.

I was going to teach her how the sky

looks when you're far

from the lights—how to find the north

from the shape of the dark.