When I noticed, at last, the seashell you placed on a post behind our house, I wondered how long it had been there, and what it is in me that blinds. You must have found the shell at Huntington, picked it up at low tide— a season ago, perhaps, or in the years of our son. What I would give to know your thoughts then: the prayers I tunneled past in my burrowing. It’s evening now, dusk. I’m out back with a flashlight, making sure your shell’s still here. I’m watching the moon’s crescent slice above our roof, along the tops of aging oaks. I’m watching October gather up the light.