She stopped kissing me on Grand Avenue. My mother. At my request. Her leaning over each night and planting a kiss on my cheek began to feel weird. She sensed it, too, saw the way I wiggled and moved and thought of questions to distract her as she approached, so I knew she was thinking of me and not herself when she teased that I might be getting too big for goodnight kisses. I agreed, but was not prepared for the loss that often accompanies the truth. Nor did I expect the hollow flowering in my chest as I heard her make the goodnight rounds, kissing the others, those who still let her.