Grief surprised me today, leaking from some old failing seam deep underground. I saw low clouds scudding by this morning, their 30° angle lift same as in every August past, the same as when I came here, the very same as when Peter left for good. I sometimes feel like my heart’ll break from nothing but the sight of white clouds in a white sky, tilted so uniformly as to be a sign, one as unreadable as the words piled up inside me. If good’s what I was left for, then I’ll have none of it. For good, all these leavings and stayings, permanent as any recurring dream. For good, these loves, this grief—and me, all choked up, unable to weep. I look at the sky, at the signal clouds of August, as they wave goodbye.