If some thing could quell a great small despair clothed in worn grey corduroy, thick milk glasses, the kitchen string might pull more gently, leave less of a scar. A phone call in the center of day, too loud to ignore, wait for a morning with sun spots on her hot dish hands, a down blanket answers great tiny pains. Forehead lines on male movie men, photos taped next to the wine labels drunk those three weeks one day when her hair had more curl, a braid.