The Suicide’s Sister

I used to catch him studying the map of his right hand, forefinger tracing a highway of veins coursing north from wrist to palm, peninsula of fingers jutting into the air. That last morning I watched him make the guest bed, yank wool blankets smooth over sheets, a precise geometry of corners, and how after breakfast, when he said goodbye to me, he sounded like a traveler who was sure his compass would lead him home, not a sailor whose boat was taking on water, a boat he’d rowed for so long, the boat he was too weary to bail.