by Jean A. Kingsley Cory Curtis Whatever wants to be said loses its voice, curled and content— a child napping in a clean house. Small birds that decorate the backyard seem to chant: remember everything, care about everything. We will see each other again, believe it or not. All life’s losses gather into the plum tree and why not, there must be a place, a sliver of sky, for us to gather—a reunion. Maybe you, a grown man, will stroll over in disguise, ask for a light, knowing