In the bathroom mirror when it’s fogged up, so that I’ll see it only when I’m naked and cold and vulnerable.
In the bottom of the cereal box.
In the blood.
On the balloons I used for our daughter’s birthday, I got a letter from you every time I inflated one. Some of the taller parents had to crouch when they entered our home.
In the sky, with the clouds.
In the pattern of the blooming cherry tree you planted thirty years ago. How long have you been planning this?
You write little eloquent apologies in the most unlikely places.