I can watch death take hold and still digest 3 meals a day, throw clothes in the machines, put them away in heaps, still tumble out with the children in stained pajamas to check the mail, sit on the porch as they dig into mud, still help with homework and braid hair when the feelings land foreign and unlabeled, requiring a probe to sort and trace them back to their origins with their blistered and bleeding and barely stitched seams embroidered with other feelings from other foreign traumas I’ve evolved enough to garage.