“I have a few ideas,” you say to us. You go over them. I retract into myself.
“I think that’s the most appropriate,” someone says. It might be me. It might be you. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that enough of us believe it.
I look at the mountains, tracing the peaks with my nail, scratching through the front on the inside of the car window. I name the peaks, remembering how they looked in the summer, in the fall. Under the moon and in the rain.