she said ‘where’d you get the nail polish?’
i said ‘my friend amy who moved away today.’
she paused.
we listened to the squawking crow outside the window,
the humid silence that weighted down it’s wings.
i thought about amy’s wings
and the downy fluff that maybe feels new life today
and the eager layers of muscle 
that twitch under a new current.
and i looked up,
one naked nail to go,
just in time to see the black wings 
stretch gracefully across the skylight.
regal. 
ready.
awake. 
and then i painted my pinky toe
and those child eyes looked up at me 
and said
‘amy passed away today?’

and i laughed
(and cried inside)
because she didn’t
and she did
and she didn’t.
because an old story died today,
and in it’s passing,
gave flight to a new one.