Letting Go.   by Tucker Lieberman

Friends retrieved our furniture and I swept out the debris. Nothing remained of him but a fortune cookie slip, probably about kindred spirits, discernment, or congratulations on a job well done. I leaned over the bridge by the dam and watched it flutter down, a pinwheel, an insect brought to life by persistent messaging.

Maybe it was about money.

Nothing prepared me for the moment that slip of truth hit the water and joined every thing that ever briefly lived.

"Here you both existed," its vaporized letters still call in witness through frozen rock. "The river will remind you forever."