rolled again before ever we got home and she’d be under the table maybe, and curled up like a cat or a baby, and crying or moaning like a critter whipped. and i’d have to carry her to bed, and no matter the soft and kissing of my words, she’d be far off and in a darker place.
and i’d feed the boys – as best i could – and we’d eat in silence, like praying in church silence – and in my head a glass jar of shiny pennies to count out and i’d start with how jenny was over breakfast. and maybe the boys had jars of their own 