It’s May in Colorado again. A silk scarf draped across winter-hardened scruff. Green sprouts quiver under threat of heavy wet snow that would simply drain dry by 11 AM, next day. Icy-hot air soothes exposed skin, calms a racing mind. Soft-focus scenery at dawn + dusk, a mist of light, tip-toeing in socked feet before the alarm and after dinnertime. A hush of clouds breathing by.

We’re in a brightly-lit church, and Dad is holding me while I struggle against him, while I struggle to breathe, while I struggle to scream because the ceiling is too high, and I was only recently acquainted with the world through the low, clear dome of an incubator upon which Dad used to tap his heavy index finger to the rhythm of “You’re. Gonna. Live. You’re Gonna Live.”