Writing. This is how it's done:
I had to go to Iowa City again that night. As I tucked Karin into bed in her room with curtains covered in kittens and ballerinas, I said, "Is there anything I can bring you?" figuring on an ice-cream bar, a Dr. Pepper, or a slice of cheese pizza, which, incredibly, she likes to eat cold for breakfast.
"Bring me the flowers, Daddy," she said. "I want some to touch when I wake up in the morning."
That night, after my meeting, I drove back to the spot we had visited by day. It was like a cathedral, the filtered light of stars and streelights peeking through the thatch of blossoms and leaves.
From the jumble in the back seat, I took a large Styrofoam cup that had once held a cherry Coke, and, walking along the dark street rather sheepishly, scooped handfuls of petals from the the overflowing gutters, wondering how I would explain myself if someone chanced to ask.
I carried them home on the seat beside me like an urn of ashes, and placed them on the night table beside Karin's bed. I watched her sleeping; she slept on her back, her right-hand palm up beside her head. She looks like Annie run through a copying machine that reduces things in size. I bent and kissed her freckled nose. I will probably never love her more than I did at that moment.
- from "Shoeless Joe" by W.P. Kinsella