That you had loved butter and chocolate. That salt could not cure every illness. The words backpack, better, back then, bury. Your dream about the leafed-up world. A box half the length of your body. The god you turned from, his palms threaded with metal. What must fold or arch. The slubbed ends of toes, tips of fingers. What aches now and what in time will refuse to straighten. The science of nails, how to make pegs to hold a table together, a solid enough surface for bowls of stew, a dress to mend, sums divided, subtracted, and forms to fill out and sign and send. The page torn but pieced back together. The joke you made that someone overheard. The look on your face when everyone else was singing.