Quietly tumbling into the folds of my memory, like carded wool bundles, are little mundane moments gone undocumented. The smudged picture of Ford, placing a fistful of wildflowers atop his chick’s small stickpile grave. Chas, smiling in the kitchen with a half-eaten stick of melting butter in his hands. The pit in my stomach as I scan the decay in Ford’s dental x-rays while he squirms in the the chair and Chas wriggles out of my exhausted arms. The warm breeze lofting the sunlit red feathers on our chicken Betty, dead in the grass beside our driveway. Ford sitting before the nature table, arranging feathers and acorns and tiny baskets of glass beads. The electricity of change, orchestrating stifled conversations about not moving and interrupting my sleep. Like now.