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I didn't dare tell my diving instructor that on the next jump, I'd resolved to keep my eyes shut to see where I'd wind up landing.

She said we were over because I never learned to laugh, which ironically is what finally taught me.

In eleventh grade, in History, I was paired with the amazing Lindsay Finler on what started off as an essay about morse code; and two weeks later at midnight, as we christened the broadcasting tower she'd built, I could see our futures swerve together as clearly as I thought I could see the two lanes of interstate lights bowing from Des Moins to Kansas City from the top of our tower on the top of a hill on the northernmost point of her father's dying farm.

At the packing plant, we jarred tuna, and tuna alone and nothing else, even when there was a shipping error and we got nothing for a week but rotting haddock.

At some point when I was six, and once again making the journey between my two parents, I discovered that I could fit inside the captain's steamer trunk and hide between the stiff layers of his uniforms; and that only there, pressed in the starchy dark, could I recall my sister's face.

My heart lept twice as I tried to sneak out early: once when I felt a tug on my sleeve, and again when I turned to see my cuff caught in Mary's orthodontia.