Mary Oliver died and I looked her up and found yet another woman who lived a life with another woman, loving and loved, and I never knew. I didn’t need to know. I’d never met her. I’ll never meet her. Still, I think about the beautiful mystery of people, the universes and abysses they contain, each so tender and personal, holding awestruck moments shared with no one at all but themselves, and I feel envy. I think of the love between people, forty years home and learning each other’s patterns— forty years!—a conversation they couldn’t wait to keep having. Two women in love, in a time when people still think it’s impossible for two women to be in love. Two lifetimes together, they lasted. There’s a languid stretch of future with the people I have chosen to love. I look forward to never tiring of them. I look forward to bringing forth a whistle, to their surprise. Perhaps best of all, I’m excited to learn the ways they will surprise me in return.