She’s on the couch, phone loose in one hand, the screen dark, her eyes somewhere past the window, not seeing. I sit down next to her. Not too close. Her thumb moves once across the black screen, her eyes still distant. I know why she isn’t looking. The photos appear on their own now, the photo memory app deciding the day that two women on a ridge somewhere, tents behind them, appear. Her face in those photos is open, smiling, doing what her face seldom does anymore. I still have the same pictures. I haven’t deleted them either, though I’ve thought about it, not sure if I should. I don’t say the thing about time healing. She’d know it was just a line. Instead I tell her about the two dogs next door, how a skunk cornered them and they had to sleep in crates on the porch until they got a skunk-neutralizing bath. She almost laughs. I don’t tell her it gets better. I tell her I’m glad she’s still here, on this couch, in this room, with me. We sit there while the room gets darker and neither of us reaches for the light; her phone is now face down, still holding those photos, with all those camping trips, that filtered evening light on two people who are not together anymore.
Author’s Note
It’s not a linear journey. You’ll have ups and downs, and that’s okay.—Amber Glenn
Some things I understand only when I write about them.
This poem came about because years ago I found myself watching my daughter deal with heartbreak and felt helpless to change the situation. All I felt I could do was hold back the words I knew were not helpful, sit nearby offering comfort, and skip the instinct to turn it into my own need to act.
Upcoming…
A story about some big questions:
THE BLUE SHE CHOSE, 15 August 2026
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