The Photo

The photo came back.

Five years. My sister found it—

me and someone else

barely visible near the kitchen.

She asked who they were.

I said I didn't remember.

What I meant was:

I remember the shape of the night.

I remember the hallway after.

I remember how the body

just does what it does,

and then you're both

putting on your coats

like nothing happened,

like you hadn't just made a decision

that felt like a decision

until it didn't.

My sister moved to the next photo.

I stayed on that one.

Two people standing

in someone else's party,

already leaving,

already gone.

This is what they don't photograph—

the part where you walk to your car

and the other person walks to theirs

and it's the last time you'll see them

and you both already know it.

The body remembers the nothing

better than it remembers

anything that mattered.