It is the face of a girl who has seen the world, who realizes that it hates her, and who hates it in return.

They never exhale, the trees; on a very windy day, they rustle and inhale, and then the leaves and the branches all tremble as though something means to strangle the life from them. The sky watches on. The world is filled with anticipation, as if to wonder if this day will be a great day, or a horrible day, or the last day.

There is no choice for him but to believe. He has nothing left to give in offering.

I see an ocean that’s spilled out of a wineglass, its body clear and sparkling and folding over itself. I see a ribbon of sand.

Times like this, when she slips her hand into mine and holds on tight, and our husband becomes just a shadow in the doorway.

Hope, that risky, illustrious thing. It should have gone extinct by now, but we keep it alive.

My sisters were in that van.