I REMEMBER a mist-gray stoop, plywood propped against the fence. We played catch there, and the regular game. You taught me how.

Now I find your name in a different field. Hills, flowers, deer. A family reunites three plots away. The air is wet with their tears.

I miss you.

B. Garcia is a Creative Writing professor in the day time. At night, he moonlights as someone trying to figure out how to write in the first place.