Everything dies, I said. How had that started?
A tree? The winter? Not me, she said.
And I said, Oh yeah? And she said, I’m reincarnating.
Ha, she said, See you in a few thousand years!
Why years, I wondered, why not minutes? Days?
She found that so funny—Ha Ha—doubled over—
Years, she said, confidently.
I think you and I have known each other a few lifetimes, I said.
She said, I have never before been a soul on this earth.
(It was cold. We were hungry.) Next time, you be the mother, I said.
No way, Jose, she said, as we turned the last windy corner.
“Walking Home” from Magdalene by Marie Howe. Copyright © 2017 by Marie Howe.