It’s the last of the terminally ill, my mother says, pulling down preserves. I know what she means. She means she’s relieved that our town will stop disappearing for awhile, will hold at four hundred and ten (give or take). She means she’s anxious because losses come in threes, and Charlie makes two. They can’t build on that land, my mother says, preheating the oven. I know which she means. She means by the creek where it floods. She means no makeshift house can survive such waters. She means those boys I used to run with don’t know any better. When are you coming home, my mother asks, sliding the pie in. I know what she’s asking. She’s asking did I hear that men are throwing stones at other men in celebration. She means post-election in Palestine. Do I remember how the hummingbirds smashed and cracked into the kitchen window until she took the feeder down and the murmurs of their wings were overwhelmed by other songs, by other birds.