Her humming, "Mmm," as she sipped lemonade in Central Park, asking me on the dim steps of Belvedere Castle, "Do you like how short my dress is today?"

I could smell the sun in her hair on the Fourth of July, and recall the sparkle of wonderment in her eyes as we watched fireworks, holding hands.

Her perched nude on that rock in the pool as we hid behind the waterfall.

The soft claim of her lips against mine.

Her holding Andy the day he was born.

Her smile.

Her laughter.

I vowed to attach the sound of her name to every memory I owned, not what I called her, not what she was titled at birth, but just the way it felt to hear her name as a belonging force in this stupid, overly-complex world. I loved her name. I loved the naturalness of her laughter; why did anything need to be more complex than that.

I hovered over her and didn't see the truth. She was as elegant as Sleeping Beauty resting peacefully in her bed. Perhaps it was fate's way of charming me in my darkest hour.

I rested my lips to the bare skin of her shoulder hidden beneath the hospital gown.

"How it begins is how it goes." I sealed our goodbye much the way we started-with a binding kiss amidst an impossible truth. "It began with your eyes cast down, and mine looking right at you," I whispered. "I watched you rule out hundreds of questions and accept only mine. I poured my stories into your eager heart, and you sparked faith inside the stubbornness of mine. Our beginning was written in the stars-how could it not be?-you, this constant revelry following me into the darkness of desolate nights. My Farfalla. My Topolina. My Peach. You sweet, beautiful, little thing." I kissed her cheek. I remembered it warm and vital, flushed and smiling. "And so this is the song I'll sing, this our dance, Everly Anne-your footprints are stamped across my life, cleansing and purifying me, molding and reminding me. A love I can't deny. A love I can't ever rebuild or recapture. And for all the suffering I will reap for loving you, I will never be sorry. I'd rather feel the burn of your loss than to never have experienced the bliss of your laughter. You may have lifted my burden of giving away your heart, but I will never tell it goodbye. How could I? It beats your song so fervently inside of my chest. It beats so full of sprite inside of our son." I kissed her eyelids, her philtrum. I held her hand to my cheek as a reminder of how true softness felt. I combed her long blonde hair through my fingers until it burned scars across my spirit.

Time. It crept in as I slept and stole the hours away.

Time. It ran out.

Time. It was time.

I had to leave.

She had to stay.

She had to go.

I had to stay.

One last time.

"Sleep well, Topolina," I whispered. "I'll always be waiting for you."

I waited for the door to open. I could not leave her behind. Just as I had sat on the floor of the hospital in fourth year waiting, I sat and waited for her that night, too. Nearly an hour after I arrived the door opened, a Coroner named Richard Gainey jumped slightly at the surprise of me sitting outside the doors.

And he somehow knew my purpose right away. I didn't go to Timothy that night, but I felt his presence linger in the eyes of Gainey, as if he had been warned.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Sir."

I nodded to the file in his hand. "Is that her report?"

"Yes, Sir. I just finished."

"Give it to me."

"Sir, you really don't want to read . . . I mean . . . why?"

"Give me the damn thing." I held out my hand but made no move to read it when it was handed over. "I'll turn it in for you. Go."

"I can't let you do that. It'll cost me my job."

"I'm a doctor. It will be fine."

"Sir, no. Please go home and get some rest. You look . . . exhausted."

"Rich," I drew myself up and took three measured steps toward him. He was a short, stocky man, in his upper fifties. I loomed over him. "You need to get the fuck out of here. Trust me."

"Why are you here, Sir? There are so many other ways to . . ."