After the divorce, I moved into a studio above a pharmacy. The pharmacist knew my refills by heart before I learned his name.
Zoe was three. She'd fall asleep in the car and I'd hum the lullaby my mother used to sing, but I only remembered the middle. Something about a river, something about a bird.
I kept her school photo in my wallet, cropped with scissors because I couldn't afford the keychain version. The edges curled and went soft from rain.
One night Zoe hummed the beginning back to me. She'd learned it at daycare, different words, same tune. My mother must have gotten it from somewhere too.
I didn't lose the song. I lost the person who first gave it to me. But it found its way forward anyway, all bent and patched up, still recognizable.
Zoe sings it now with her own made-up ending. Something about a pony. I let her. The song was never about getting it right.