I still see him sometimes, sitting on the kitchen doorstep flicking mud from the teeth of his football boots. And you mashing fish with ketchup so that he won't make the connection between supper and Jacob, his golden pet. I am in your kitchen now. The cheerful yellow curtains buff against open windows. You have crayon pictures of Jacob swimming eternally in circles upon the fridge door. In the next room I know you are curled up in that huge armchair disconnected, and I, inadequate, am searching wildly for crumbs of comfort— a misty hope or dusty light— but there is nothing. I stand, stupid, in the doorway. Offer you coffee instead, watch you thrash helpless through that sea of dark water where little fishes drown.