I found some diaries from when I was thirteen, and they’re filled with half-invented stories, boring dreams and little drawings from classroom windows where tetherballs rattle, limp, on their poles. I was surprised that there was nothing really in them about me that was remotely real, until I saw volume three changed completely about twelve pages in; then, tragedy kissed me full on the lips. When I re-read what I wrote, I get a lump in my throat, and it lingers in whatever I say. Cradling what was left of a beloved pet unraveled years and years of burying pain. It’s essential that this is taken to hart, because these lessons have been tested by all the losses we’ve suffered so far. So I nominate my kitten for the King of the Dead. Seven years have passed, and now I’m back to this: distant, dogmatic, the words flow from my lips, like in these pages of false history dragged from attic to attic with me. So, Sara, listen close: I want you here alive. And, Gail: I reserve a spot at your bedside. Carla, I’ve been through all of this with you, and I know you remember it, too. That ceremony was the last thing that we ever did in that time zone again. The origins of hope, wrapped in shoebox and rope, dragging us from our world of pretend. Chorus.