Edna, I thought I’d find you here eating a pear, staring at the desert ground waiting to see if it would break apart into ants carrying seeds to you. To see if the empty creek with its shadow-current cut into sand would fill with rain that was supposed to come but didn’t—the weather is off by a day here. Tell me how before you left home you made sure the porch lights were off because he and you weren’t returning there. Or, how you deleted his name to numbers you didn’t plan on writing over and over until those numbers changed in order and he became someone else you could kill on paper. Tell me, Edna.