Dear Mom:

I tell him about the pennies. I tell him that when I see the shiny ones I know that it’s you. How I pick them up from the floor, picking up pieces of me with them. And he smiles at me, a kind of smile that says he wishes he had a pocket full of shiny pennies. His brown eyes are dark and so cold— they’ve seen too much. I used to know him by his laugh. The one as strong and high as the trees we climbed together as children. And I’m thinking of you, wanting a coin to gleam right here, right now, on the floor and absorb all of our sorrow— like the yellow roses we loved from your funeral. And I’m thinking of Angels, wondering where his are hiding. And if a kiss is not a penny then tell the Angels to please leave him some other sign because he needs this. We need this. I’ve never been good at praying— I’m telling you I would throw every last penny I’ve found up into the sky where they could shine like guiding stars if it meant he could have closure. There’s no bringing you back, but we could bring back his laugh if you whisper to the Angels. He collapses and dies small deaths, and I’ve grown tired of searching for him inside of them. I know sometimes he wants to go, but he doesn’t want to leave a mess the way you had. I wonder if he’d leave me pennies. If when he got there he’d finally understand the Angels. If they would understand him.