But that was a lie. If the first man and woman came to be conscious—truly human—they must have eaten mushrooms they found in the ground, not apples in a tree. When they ate, they first appreciated the colors they saw and the warmth they each emitted. And when they ate, they must have felt the shape of their throats and tongues and realized they could speak, and so they made words. And they knew death. And then they used their throats and tongues and other parts for other things. He felt her hips and realized only those hips could birth heads big enough for words and stay standing on two feet, and so he made a new mind in them to carry the words after their deaths. And so lying in the grass with so many thoughts they never had before, they named the animals and all the things they wanted to talk about. There was only one thing they could not speak, one incredible purpose, one pressing feeling, and so they did not name it. And eventually they slept, and when they woke, they felt the way they had before they ate, but they did not think the same, for they had words forever and ever and the knowledge of that something, which would never be satisfactorily described and rarely wielded well but would persist deep inside their children through all the darkness to come, and as all persistent feelings do, it would irritate and infect and become prone to worms of trauma.

In the moment that she tasted, she was opening a box, a jar, herself and freeing everything but hope, which would persist in all her children.

In the moment he tasted, he was handed fire, and he learned to keep it burning always.

In the moment she opened, she wept an ocean that would never cease trying to cling to the moon.

In the moment he held fire, he learned to shelter it from water.

In the moment the moon came closest, the earth shook, and the ocean rose, and most of her children were swallowed, returned.

In the moment the water came, they were sheltered together and warmed by fire, and so they did persist.

Early in the processional of grievances that followed, I thought of how I would never have another hug. I mourned that fact. Then sharing kisses. Then the feeling of a man inside me. Then tears for anyone but myself. Then the waltz. Then acting so furious that someone gets scared I might hit them even though I’d never do that. Then clutching someone’s thumb with my whole hand the way a baby would. Then anger over inefficiency in lines at convenience stores. Coffee because I refused to learn how to make it. New diamonds because I would not dig them up. Old arrowheads because I would not dig them up. New graves because I would not dig them up. Rock paper scissors. Peekaboo.

I learned how to make love to myself when I was thirteen. I learned how to make love to a man when I was sixteen. I learned how to make love to a woman when I was eighteen. The frequency with which I’ve done those things is in that order, descending…

Death looks like a house that’s crumbling. It starts with the tiles coming off the roof and making a mess of the lawn, and before you know it, it’s just a pile, and you can’t even find your keepsakes in the dust. It feels like it has been happening forever, like the least surprising thing, like the way you know your legs are going to be asleep when you stand up from kneeling too long. It smells like flowers, like too many flowers, like a florist or a funeral home or your trashcan after you’ve thrown away roses that recently wilted. Death tastes like cleaning products or nail polish remover, and the taste is in your throat, not even your mouth. You breathe it. Death sounds like a clock when it isn’t ticking, a drum that isn’t being played.