I imagine a body on a shag rug in a not yet redone basement from the seventies with a brown bar and ripped bar stools. I am in this basement throwing bar stools. There is grass outside I guess. Once I was babysitting and I stuck one of those huge metal pins through the thick cloth of the double-folded diaper into the baby. I see my daughter fall from the Space Needle, six hundred and five feet up in the air, the mesh grate gone. I see my son plummet off the deck of the ferry, into the deep cold strait. This girl. You know that first year of their life when the stroller hits the curb wrong, or she screams for four hours straight and the second floor window is right there so you park her in the crib, stick in earplugs that cost three hundred dollars, eat chocolate alone on the sofa? You know that year when you are just trying to keep them alive?