Four nights now spent crying in the bushes. Four plates crowded on my hands just before, placing food on the table. My daughter weeps in secret, too. I think it is about a boy. She is fourteen. I remember well, loving so openly then. Now I am rain inside a jar, I am the arm adored for wiping window panes. Why don’t you tell him? I ask one day, standing in her door. She looks scared, turns her head. Why are there leaves in your hair? is all she says.