Every once in a while I come across Mom standing in the kitchen and twisting her necklace. She might be steeping a teabag or sorting through the mail. She doesn’t show much on the surface, but I can tell by the way her eyes aren’t seeing what she’s looking at that she’s pitching a silent, internal horror fit over the fact that we almost lost Dad. I wonder exactly what she tells herself at those times. I could break into her thoughts at one of those moments, engage her in conversation, but to be perfectly honest, I would rather not know.