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?