On the plane to Mexico City, I thought about how death shreds time. My ordinary life had vanished.

Oh, Mel, what am I going to do? Quit teaching? Travel? Get a doctorate? Commit suicide? Where did that thought come from?

I can't handle you being dead, Ter. But you know that.

Watcha gonna do when I'm gone, Maggie?" you kept asking over and over, the other time, when you were going to London."I'll do macrame, punk.""Whatcha gonna do when I'm gone, Maggie?""You really think I need you that bad?""Yes," you said. A simple Nebraska statement.