My earliest memory is aged three, seeing sunlight on water and feeling it was really magical.

My earliest childhood memory is watching the sunlight through a jar of amber full of wasps.

I didn't bathe him because I was too afraid he would slip out of my hands or his belly button would open. Then one night I woke at three A.M. certain he was rotting like a chicken carcass. Only as I lowered him into the sink did I realize this was a crazy time to wash a baby and I began to cry because he was so trusting—I could do anything and he would go along with it, the little fool.

They wordlessly excused each other for not loving each other as much as they had planned to. There were empty rooms in the house where they had meant to put their love, and they worked together to fill these rooms with midcentury modern furniture. ("Birthmark").

Maybe he wouldn't say anything, which is the worst thing men do.

Inelegantly, and without my consent, time passed.