Awake in the dark, again, I want each looming thing — night table, dresser, chair — to set its demons free, settle for being ordinary. Beside me, my husband grinds his teeth, damned like the rest of us with the curse of breathing. What I didn’t understand on the other side of 40: despair, too, is something to hold on to. I’ve got my dead: a ribbon’s worth of rabbit-soft gray fur from the cat who was my best friend through my 20s, her name the first word both my daughters said. We buried her last winter, boiling pot after pot of water for the frozen ground, trying to dig deep enough. We did.