Memory lifts her murky mirror for the girl while the Perseids blaze through the humid haze of the waxing Red Moon. The girl steals a last glance at her life rushing upward as she falls heavy and warm, through the old wooden walkway beside the sturdy tracks of the railroad bridge, so high above the grind and gurgle of the stinking river thicket below that she has time to think on the way down. With her dozen remaining heartbeats the girl remembers a line from an old sonnet, If I should die, think only this of me that I loved the falling stars that the ground killed me not the fall. Don’t blame the fall.