Death's Daughter (epilogue)
She was crying,
unsure who she was or what she knew.
God had stopped dropping in for tea.
She had flown to her preacher dad,
who bolted the door behind her,
who insisted she should never have left home,
who fetched her at four a.m. daily to discuss Einstein on doomsday—
no questions tolerated. Everything she said wrong, even offensive.
It didn’t take long for him to unmake her.
But I knew what to say.
I knew how to comfort her without insulting him.
How to bring her back down again.
How to make her laugh.
I began to soothe her,
sitting on the windowsill of my bachelor,
staring out at a concrete wall
only inches away.