was the name of a story I wrote

about you in creative writing class,

 

back before I knew how to arrange

words on paper and coax them into

 

meaning. You could tell me it was sand

they scried in the crystal, not beads,

 

but sand can’t hold itself

together

without

water

 

or string a peach-colored bracelet. You’d

disappeared midway through, and I can’t

 

remember how the story folded. We counted

friendship in twelve rotations, an overflowing

 

time capsule in girlhood. But isn’t it wild

to think time actually stopped? Isn’t it sad

 

to think our beads would’ve

doubled

last

year?