I was reading poems about Hiroshima in a Burger King coffee shop across from where my car was up on a lift, exposed like a woman on some white slab at a gynecologist’s office, waiting to learn what the doctor finds wrong. I hadn’t spoken to my mother for two days after she called half my friends, worried about an almost nonexistent hurricane. I was ripping, but it hurt more feeling so apart. Somehow, I couldn’t not call, and we talked past noon as chicory grew into shadow. Black-eyed Susans near the booth, I sipped coffee, relieved we were back together, in the braid of each other. I couldn’t have imagined four years from then we’d be unable to do what now seemed so ordinary again. Or that ten years later I’d be sitting between body sculpture and ballet class in another town, thinking how it’s never been this long since I talked with my mother.