This morning she cried. Now she sits calmly, staring over our endless tabletop. The clear pastel of her eye carries continents, oceans, eternities. Their blue hides a vast and lonely space, punctuated by the light of old thoughts; turning. Her lace sleeve graces the dirty green tile as she stirs her cup of ocean. Brushes the feathered freckles from her cheek with her eastern hand. Plucks the heads from broccoli and drops them on the floor. She sighs like an apology and runs her cool hand against my face. I wonder why she wants to paint the walls white again. Why she shivers when she’s angry. How on earth she breathes so deeply. Yesterday at breakfast, I asked her. She smiled warm and wide with yellow teeth and said nothing.