Sometimes I wonder if I am broken enough. when they whisper of grief I do not think of that clogging of the throat. that hollowing, caving, yielding of the heart. that holding of space, the crater in the midst of lush fields. I think of my cat, his white and orange fur soft as an unbroken promise. In its folds, the wound that curled in like a shadow and the long drive to the vet's office, where anguish met us with open arms. I did not cry when my grandmother died, that lovely woman that looked for her youth in my eyes. I watched my mother's tears drown her lungs and nudged at my own. wondered where the line was, how much love it would take, before grief chose to show itself. (First published in Isele Magazine)