Then my stomach clenches up. My body breaks out into a sweat. The sugar has been too much. My mother lets out a small moan.

Together, we crouch on the tile floor of the bathroom, our stomachs twin volcanoes, our knots briefly touching when we writhe.

We take turns erupting together, my mother and I wrenching it up out of ourselves and into the porcelain bowl. For a moment, too short, her hand rests on my back, on the small of my knot.

MY MOTHER MOVES INTO A SMALLER house with my brother, closer to town. I don’t mention it, but it nags at me. I hate the idea of them together in this way, aligned.

We unpack the boxes, more long and exhausting days beside each other with the objects of their lives.

For a brief moment, when we’re finished, the small house feels fresh and new.

“It’s not bad,” my brother says. “I can take care of her.”

I picture his life stretching on that way, tethered to her wailing, caring for her as she ages.

“You’re the better one of us,” I say.

WE SPLIT MY FATHER INTO TWO. IT IS A devastating magic trick: Half of the ashes in the first urn, half the ashes in a second urn. I take my half with me. I take what’s mine.

He sits in my bag next to me on the train as I reverse my path: The bodies of the deer in the ditches, then the skyscrapers flashing by, no man snoring next to me, until I am back in town.

It is night by the time I unlock my front door. My house has a stale air about it. I have been gone for weeks, mail piled up on the floor near the mouth of the slot.

I ignore all of that. I walk to the bookshelf and place my father there, a few shelves above my head where he can watch me closely.

EACH NIGHT BEFORE BED, I LIFT HIS URN each night and press it against my chest.

This task feels holy, I move slowly, head down in reverence. Then I place his urn back on the shelf. I don’t cry anymore.

Grief can be silent.

“Goodnight,” I say. “I love you.”

Then I kiss the silver.

HENRY CALLS AND LEAVES VOICEMAILS. There are also letters in the mail, the crooked script of his hand reaching out. I ignore it all.

I do see him once in the grocery store. From behind the cover of a shelf, I stare at the back of his neck. I watch how he moves. He seems regular now, the shine gone, everything dulled. My heart is an animal that has vanished, my chest an empty field.

VISION

We are at dinner when Henry dies. I remember the meal very clearly: Steak, red wine, round potatoes. I had forgotten the salad.

“I’ve forgotten the salad,” I say.