In the voluminous bureaucratic hallways of aftermath I catalogue wounds (the baby’s back scarred by chains, the homicide-suicides). But last night I ran to the crabapple trees erupting with pink, moving their branches in night wind like tentacles, sensing, perhaps saying something. I stood in the unreal light of their canopy wondering at branches weighed down by flowers. Holy, holy… we find our own divinity. There’s nothing to make, to say, to try to balance. People suffer. And trees give their entirety to blossoms, and spend their petals on darkness while you’re asleep, and they leave no heirlooms.