1. Number of shoes Daddy removed before going to sleep on the sofa Saturday night after the hospital. On Sunday I woke before dawn and saw him asleep with his long legs hanging over the sofa’s edge in the same clothes from the night before. I removed his other sneaker, covered him with a blanket, turned off SportsCenter, and went back to my room.

2. Number of Lucille Clifton poems I copied in my prettiest handwriting and placed on my wall while waiting to hear the kettle whistle from the kitchen on Sunday. Mom makes tea first thing every morning.

3. Number of words I said to Mom and Daddy when I walked into the living room. Is. It. True. Cole was still asleep. Mom looked confused. Initially, Daddy looked scared, like a little kid who’d just gotten in big trouble, but his lawyer side came through.

4. Number of sips Mom took of her tea as lawyer Daddy summarized the same details Cole had given me the night before. As usual, Mom tried to keep her cool. But her right pinky finger wasn’t having it. It was tapping the hell out of her mug. Her right pinky was pissed.

5. Number of minutes that elapsed between the end of the conversation and Daddy leaving to buy boxes from U-Haul.

6. Number of exchanges Mom and Daddy had before Daddy moved out. All averaging ten seconds and all about which thing belonged to who.

7. Number of times per hour I begged Mom to tell me the reason they were splitting up.

8. Number of times this morning I thought I heard a knock at my door and got up and checked, but no one was there. Cole hasn’t been in my room since Saturday night. Four days.

9. Number of times Daddy called me last night. The Rockets were playing the Clippers and he wanted me to study the rhythm of James Harden’s step back. Normally I’d be annoyed, but every time I saw Daddy flash across my iPhone’s screen, I was five years old again, hearing his keys jangling at the door, telling me he’s home.

10. (x a thousand) Number of times I’ve closed my eyes and seen Rex’s face. His big down-slanted eyes staring into mine. If only he could see my pain and come hold me now.

REX

When a mother tree is dying, she passes on messages of wisdom to her baby seedlings. No lie. Suzanne Simard, this badass forest ecologist, has actually traced messages moving down a dying mother’s tree trunk, through the fungus in the ground, and into her seedlings. Dying trees speak to their children.