When so much in the world was coming 
apart in pieces, it was hard to believe 
we might ever come together again. 
Solitude was our daily regimen, 
interrupted only by restive dreams 
and news of death upon death. I thought 
I could soldier on the way I was taught: 
the good of sacrifice for the good 
of others besides myself, 
without breaking. But I broke
in so many small and ordinary ways, 
even while wrapping that apron 
more tightly around my waist— grown 
so familiar, I could almost believe it 
was tailor-made for me and me only. How did I 
forget all that I was not in such moments?

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