Mary massages the scar bisecting my left wrist. We walk to the river and watch the salmon turn the water into a glass door painted over with blood. Mary says death is like a door: when someone you know decides to leave, it swings open. She says the first time she tried was like stepping into a lake with no bottom. For me it felt like snow. The salmon quiet down, it gets dark, we pack up. We go to the grocery store to buy dinner and laugh at the names of knockoff cereal brands. Mary holds soup cans up to the light, as if checking for authenticity. I chuckle from thirty feet away, to keep from crying. I don’t know how to tell her—whenever I write her into a poem, people think she’s dying. They have it reversed.