I’d rather not think about it but I can’t help it. Who knows how thoughts progress from my parents’ kitchen its window overlooking the garden to grief, infinite or bounded, and love, finite or unbounded. My sister has died, and time and space intervene unless heaven is not a place or coincides. We stand in the kitchen and don’t know what to say to each other. The experience is not familiar yet here is the sink, the window, the table, the food we haven’t eaten.