She played volleyball and followed Jesus and said she was not perfect, but God was.
She threw clay and smoked weed and her middle, I’ll never see its equal.
She wore a messy bun and spoke with an accent and always asked what were my plans.
She grew up in Canada and smiled an overwhelming smile and loved the films I loved.
She painted and had such dark hair and this laugh I seldom heard.
She came from the east coast and on karaoke night sang “Killing Me Softly” and seemed to not know how she could crush someone.
She made abstract collages and went to school just for art and thanked me after each time.
She studied to be a lawyer and tilted her head down when she laughed and I think it was because of the endearing gap in her front two teeth.
She went to the most expensive private school and cross-country skied and had the kind of bottom, one could weep for its absence.
She wore big glasses and rode a bike and always seemed so relaxed.
She taught sociology and said I was amazing, even wonderful.
She was out of school, or just going in again.
She had red hair, or brown or black.
She had tattoos, unless she had none – her skin still perfect.
She shaved everything, or, no, she kept it.
She laughed so much, or I think actually she was very serious.
It’s just, I can’t picture it.
I don’t know a thing about her.