My habit was to duchess the clothesline: empty sleeves in the wind’s gentle harness. An only child weighing one form of loneliness against another. Walking between buildings there was sometimes a feeling of floating up— piano music from an open window. Given milk with a little coffee mixed in, given a rosary by mistake; I felt closer to God in Canada, maybe because of the lake. My grandmother took me to Zeller’s and bought me a nightgown with lace. Everyone is so tired. I have never understood it. Canoeing to the island I lost a tooth. You’re a big kid now, the cousins scolded, and snag went my tongue on the space.