Each day is like an experiment in chaos theory. Will the butterfly wing flap in South America cause a tornado in Texas, and if flapped twice, will there be high clear skies in North Carolina? I like to think the initial conditions are the same — I rise first, go about my waking business, prepare, make, and deliver a cup of coffee — one sugar (I do sometimes forget), Knowing the initial conditions, however, have lost any predictive capacity

All seems the same as the previous day but in 45 minutes — there is silence. Persistent silence, as though we were conducting a ritual at a religious retreat. We are running errands. We make it to the car without a “Do you have…?”. I have noticed that Elise has her gloves, cane, and cellphone purse.

“I don’t have any money.” Statement of fact.

We drive in silence. I feel like I am wearing a hat with a too tight head band. There’s whooshing sound in my ears.

“Do you really want to park here?”

“You didn’t want to come in. You have no money.”

“I might find something”

We move. I give her $20.

The ride back is silent too. So is lunch.

By dinner, learning from the news of another mass shooting, it is time to lament. We are in agreement on a solution but at loss as to how to implement it.