So many things are unbearable, until they pass into a different kind of existence: forgetfulness, or sleep, or death. One of my daughters knits a bashful mimosa into a garment: those leaves that curl away from touch, shrink back to green in the underbrush unlit by any except the closest noticing. I thought I knew the sound of snapped twigs, unseen wings slicing the air— the waiting between one moment of uncertainty and another.