That time at the Chinese butcher, you pointed to the roasted pig hanging from its hook. “The ribs are just like a person’s after they’re burned.” You let out a clipped chuckle, then paused, took out your pocketbook, your face pinched, and recounted our money.

Sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you’ve been ruined.

Too much joy, I swear, is lost in our desperation to keep it.

I’m not telling you a story so much as a shipwreck—the pieces floating, finally legible.

Before I spoke, someone gave me a Luxo lamp as a present to commemorate the moment. Extemporaneously, I thanked the group and told them I was going to use it to illuminate our castle. It has ever since.