I have made you some things, for when you get back. I understand now, all the baking you sent me, stale and crumbled in brown paper and rough twine. Now you’re away and I am here. So I will make and make until you get back to remind you, and myself: there are reasons to come home.

Toxemia. A word that starts so harsh and ends so gently.

Etta, it could be everything, it could be nothing, what you’re making up. You shouldn’t let that bother you.