There was a remarkable sunrise on the day Everly Anne died. Fate came gently and without warning as it sowed seeds of her death into strokes of sherbet painted across an early-morning Georgia sky. I was late as normal, and she was waiting as always.

We wrapped in a flannel blanket, and swung slow on our porch swing in silence for longest measure after I handed her a single stem of something wild and free-just like her.

"I do believe that is the most beautiful sunrise I have ever seen," she said quietly.

My fingers graced her cheek. "What sunrise?"

Everly turned into my kiss, and not even the brilliant sun of the south could recapture my attention with her lips pressed against mine.

Between breaths I asked, "Still love me, Peach?"

"My heart's still beating."

I held her face with soft strokes of my thumbs on her cheeks. It was Valentine's Day and showing up with red roses and cardboard wrapped candy would've only been an insult. The most important thing to Everly was her voice, so I dug out a topic that I listened to weeks prior as I rushed to get dressed and off work. I wanted-no, needed-her to know I always heard her voice. It was inescapable. Fifteen thousand miles away I had heard her. She made a home inside my thoughts.

"I've been thinking about your poem dilemma." That earned me a smile. "I think I've figured out the flaws."

"Oh have you?" Everly replied. "Look at that, he's not just a top-notch doctor, but also a poetry insider."

I relaxed against her. "I'm not arguing Poe wasn't brilliant, but I think an idea like "we loved with a love that was more than love" is too . . . depreciating. I feel as though he deduces love as this simple flimsy thing, and we need something greater to truly feel something worthwhile for another person-when in actuality-love is the most complicated, complex thing in the world."

She mulled over my words before she said, "But I think that's the whole point-makes you wonder what it would feel like to be above something that we already consider the ultimate."

I shake my head to humor her further. She loves debate. I'm not really all that interested in poetry or Edgar, but sometimes these inconsequential talks became the best moments we had ever shared.

So I argued, "No, you're giving him too much credit. He's totally lowering love to a subpar level, and then to make it worse he can't even put a name on what's higher than love. That's a real asshole move, don't you think?"

At minimum those talks were worth her laughter. "Okay Callum, put a name on it."

"It's love," I replied with conviction. "There's no need for something greater for it is already complete and complex, perfect and flawed, which means it's real. But most importantly, its definition is like searching for sculptures amongst the clouds. No one will ever see the same thing, just as no one will ever love the same way. And therein rests the power of love, because every time someone utters the words "I love you" they are wholly unique to the moment and person, and no one, not even famous poets, can take that away."

I was on the cusp of a win as she slid her fingers through mine. "What's your definition?"

"Currently?" I admired her face. "Six twenty three."

"You already gave me that number."

"No, Peach, I'm not giving you a number. I'm giving you a time. Right now it's 6:23 in the morning and I'm with the love of my life watching the sunrise after a night full of disasters and heartbreak. So maybe to the outside world sitting on the porch with you would not seem very grandiose-maybe to a poet this would be too simply dressed-but there isn't anything above this moment for me. I've begged for it to arrive since I left seventeen hours ago."

She treated me to blueberry waffles in bed, and sent me off to dream with the warmth of her body pressed solidly at my side.

Another rarity.

Another sign.

I woke to a world more familiar. Too loud, and way too quiet all at once. The loud: Andy playing video games on the foot of our bed. The quiet: the absence of warmth.

"Hey," I said groggy-eyed. "Where's your mom?"

"Grandpa Trovatto is here. He gave me this game. Wanna play?"

"No, I asked where your mom is, Andrew."

He hit pause and turned my way. "She went shopping with grandma Marta for food. Said it was girls only. Whatever, like I wanted to go anyhow. Look at this game . . ." he hit play and the sound of gun-fire filled the room. I clutched my head and crawled from bed.

"Good thing she's not here," I said, "she'd kill Grandpa if she saw you playing that crap."

He stared like a zombie as he played. "Don't tell."

I brushed my teeth and readied for my over-night shift, checking my phone after I dressed. Nothing. I dialed her and left a message when she didn't answer. "I dreamed about the night you were at Noelle's cafe in Uptown, pretending to be St. Valentine. I was so in love with you that night Everly Anne-you branded me with your bright eyes-you locked me under your wing with your laughter. Call me back, and stop buying stuff with my stepmom. We have plenty of dishes."

Downstairs my father managed to pull out every pot and pan we owned. The kitchen was inundated with tomato, basil, and garlic wafts of comfort.

"I don't know who you are, but I'm glad you're in my house, old man."