I can say it now without shaking. Without crying. Without falling down. It still grabs my throat sometimes, but it will release its white-knuckle grip if I whisper tenderly, you are true. It does not need me to lie and say it is beautiful or that through force of habit it has become exalted. And when I can’t speak, it has given me permission to carry it between my breasts, against the grief that has become cellular. Almost just something else to carry through this fraught world.