Everyday, I brush my hair with the comb from your wedding, pink with your name in green: Alissa. I look at the shells on my dresser from times we spent together. Admire the little flowered box from South Africa that still contains the butterfly necklace you gave me. Did I ever say thank you?

I'd like to knock gently on your door and turn on a soft light. Is anybody home? I know you left long ago, but would you like to talk? We could walk along that passageway together. Just around the bend it starts to open up a little. Not too bright just yet, and not too fast, although I know you're quick.

Yesterday was the day, so the papers say, or was it the day before?

Years before then, over Columbus Day weekend, just a few days from now, looping through time and space... I remember seeing countless monarch butterflies making a stopover in a special place that you know well, an altogether magical event. You might have seen it, too. They were traveling en masse in transit from North to South during their great fall migration.

Delicate creature, little and strong, floating like the autumn leaves, bright, beautiful, laced with dark edges. You disappeared in your solo flight, a crash landing with no return. Now let's open this box and let you go. After all, you're already gone.