The Moon's Laying Low in the Sky Forcing Everything Metal to Shine

"Listening to Sam's music in the old house, I moved his things into one corner of the room. It spilled out like some tragic volcano of memory and there, puked up from the place where two walls met was most of how my husband defined himself. The bike, twisted thing, was taken away by his friend, whether it was repairable or not, I didn't want to know, because knowing meant betraying Sam by not fixing it. I picked up the stray pick on the nightstand, and strummed one of the four guitars that stood like back-up singers to the terrible song my life had become at 12:28 in the middle of the day where a murky sun hung from the sky's gallows and my life, that life, ended for good. How many times in dating Sam, had I asked to hear the stories of racing, just to see his face go lit-up, go faraway to some place where he felt singular, felt about himself, the way I felt about him over breakfast or as he stood, at the door of the closet as he sheepishly undressed for the night and stood there, a kind of stunning architecture of length and lean, and no matter how many years it got to be, I was never accustomed to how arresting he was to me. I loved the pride his face took in the telling, and how many times then had he told me that most people die riding on the streets, not on the track and how often did I wish my husband would outgrow that bike, the one took him to the store and back again, the one, on sunny days as we lay in bed, I could see him already riding as his eye wandered window-wise, measuring the light, the bends in the highway and how tiny that thrill would be comparatively."