Let me tell you about the postman. Cypress-tall, chestnut-haired, pale, for he spent most mornings of his life delivering to the underworld, where no sunray reaches.

Then we’re further down the sidewalk than we should be after the last step I took. Like time skipped a beat. Like more has happened in the blink of an eye than should have.

They are in the middle of saying grace when Emily turns into smoke. She doesn’t mean to. She tries to hold on as a courtesy to her in-laws.

The clinic called the procedure a softening. Not removal, not erasure—only a gentle sanding of the sharp places.