She appears during my office hour, says a name,
and asks if I remember her son.
“Victor. Sure.”
“Did you know he died?”
That makes me sit up straighter. “Jesus, no.
I’m so sorry.”
She shows me a handful of poems written
in the lilac ink he adored.
“He wrote these in the hospital.
Were the other students kind to him?”
“It was a good class.”
“He talked about it a lot.” She grips a double-strand
of pearls. “I promised him I would stop by.”
I stand to shake hands. Then walk her to
a door that opens to the usual pandemonium:
the insults and flirting and threats of the living.