Two out of three eighteen-wheelers on the road in eastern Michigan and northern Indiana have Ontario license plates.  I can’t go five minutes without thinking of you.  My son in the car, my husband in the car…I am darting between the tractor-trailer trucks like a water bug amongst lilies…music is loud, the Sundays or the English Beat…I see Ontario plates and it is your hands in my hair, your voice whispering impossible things that you do or do not mean…

I remember your voice, “It’s Cormac,” spoken like a million dollars coming out of the till, spoken like fifteen puppies jumping onto the sofa.  You spoke faster than I would have imagined, and there was some New York mixed in with your Canada.  But your voice sounded innocent in a way—like awe was still attainable.  “I love you”—you said it like a game-show host, like it was a prize.

I’m trying not to explode in hands full of confetti and angst and smolder.

Everything is Cormac, Cormac, Cormac…

P.S. Oh, your voice, it was a prize.  It was