She'd been watching her grandmother knead dough, knowing this was one of the last times. The loss hadn't come yet but she was already inside it. Every detail had become precious by being finite.

She'd been slowing her pace for the dog, who wasn't going to be walking much longer. The afternoon was clear, the dog sniffing at something by the fence. Each of these walks had become specific. She memorized the shape of him against the light.

He'd been watching his daughter pack her room, boxes labeled in her careful handwriting — this would be the last summer she lived here. The loss wasn't real yet. But he was already saying goodbye to the particular shape of her being in this house.
