I thought I saw you in the grocery store you used to work at the other day— I almost stopped to say 'Hello, how are you?'

You walked past me without a word, and it was only then that I remembered that you had made your home already in a place that I can't reach, in a grave whose address I was never given.

I only found God when you left us behind. I sat in your tiny, little church and I listened to the pastor, who barely knew your name, give a eulogy that failed to capture your memory. Who else knew you but God? How else could I get closer to a ghost than getting to know the Holy Spirit, which you had followed so assiduously?

When I see him, I'll ask you how you've been, and I hope he tells me you've enjoyed the clementines I last left you.