The week you died, before I knew you were dying, a black blur crossed my path in the cold, still morning. The creature paused to look back at me, a dog with no owner in sight. As I jogged closer, a narrow snout and a lack of collar signaled it might not be domesticated. The animal stayed still, tail down, until I got too close.
I saw it was a fox though not the red and tawny ones that blended with the brush surrounding the park. A black fox, rare, unexpected, it turned abruptly, rapid on its feet before it slowed and slunk across the newly grown grass, wet with dew. A wild animal, it disappeared from view, but lingered in my thoughts. A sign, or an omen, with each ragged breath I took on my loop to the end of the parking lot and back toward the creek.
The week you died, when I knew you were dying, the daffodils from last spring bloomed, white petals and egg-yolk centers. I forgot I planted them, just like I forgot the last time I heard from you. I stood on the patio in flip flops even though the February chill froze my toes, taking in one beautiful thing when I didn’t know how long you had left, if anyone had placed flowers next to your hospital bed. I stood in that same spot on a December night years ago, when I searched the sky for a meteor shower that never appeared, while you gazed from a few blocks away. We came up empty that night, no celestial connection between us.
The week you died, when I knew you were gone, I ran the trail where I last saw you. The creek meandered, then rushed, through the curve between your childhood home and my adult one, between your past and my future. The path of the water different now than when we were last together, changed by flood and fire, trees torn down and brush washed away. The water carved its own path, and I moved around it, listening to the songs you sent me, the lyrics heavier now, sharper than when you were still breathing, laughing, hoping. I turned the volume up, ran faster and longer than I had in months, my muscles tightening into knots, my heart twisted.
The week you died, I told no one how close I’d been to loving you. That we’d circled around each other for years, looking for a gap in our paths to open up, to bind us together. Until we both closed each other out of the loop. For good.
I told no one. How angry you made me at your selfishness. How guilty I was for not calling out your bravado, for not trying harder to reel you back in. How broken hearted that you’d broken my heart one last time, ghosted me in the most final way. The grief sat in my stomach, a knot unraveling, and I did not want to claim it.
The week you died, the wild poppies bloomed, the sun rose bright across the far horizon, the weather warmed. I took a step, and a step, and a step. I held my tears until I moved alone, no neighbors or passersby, and they fell when I reached the place the black fox cut across my path.
The week you died, I took out the trash. I walked across campus to get a decaf coffee. I went to a retirement party. I lay next to my son just as he stilled into sleep. I hid my face from a coworker. I cried. I cried. I cried.
The week you died passed by. Another week went by. Another week. Another.
Melissa Flores Anderson is a Latinx Californian who lives with her husband and son. Her creative work has been featured in more than 40 literary venues and anthologies, including swamp pink, Chapter House and HAD. She is the EIC of the Broken Hearts Gallery Literary, an instgram project that features photos and micro stories (@brokenheartsliterary) and a reader/editor with Roi Fainéant Press. Her first full-length short story collection “All and Then None of You” is out September 2025 (Cowboy Jamboree). Follow her on Twitter/Bluesky @melissacuisine or IG/Threads @theirishmonths. Read her work at melissafloresandersonwrites.com.