Outside my daughter’s school, my old workplace, I’m disconnected.
When she was little in a carseat, I drove by. Stealing peeks at the old universe. Searching for a shadow me.
That was a different person. Dissolved in so much bath water. She’s gone now. Grew gills. Breathing the foam of washed dishes and hooded bath towels.
I look back up at the building. Looks familiar. Like the framed print that hung in my mother’s kitchen.
A cat, examining her shadow.