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Mother and Daughter The bond between mother and daughter can be so profound that when Jane died, Sally died, too, differently and elsewhere—
more secret yet more telling than the casket or urn, or grave— a not wanting to touch, much less see, the final resting place
of Jane or that thick, pink sweater she wore whenever the temperature dropped enough for the heat to kick on,
or talk about Jane to anyone, just ordinary talk. What they liked to do together, Sally did for Jane as she could before Jane
wore down: feet shuffling, unable to breathe without pain, without a nitro placed under the tongue. All this, then,
was filed so deeply in Sally’s consciousness that nothing would surface on its own; and if it did, well, what good
would it ever do for her, whose life had been a testament to fending off a precise cooling, like a sweater in early fall.
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