There were so many things that had made her want to cry. That kitten that had camped out on her porch one chilly fall morning, its ribs. She gave it food and water and named it Malibu but never saw it again after that day it spent in her lap, as she read some awful book about leather daddies. That time by the pool, the summer before 7th grade when Meredith Lerner had pulled one of her pigtails so hard half of it came out in her little hand, and she thought Meredith Lerner was her friend. That older woman, on Gameshow Surprise, who began to tear up when she won the jackpot. The time her father called to wish her a happy birthday on the 17th, not the 19th. That day she was so sick, in pain, in her dorm alone, too weak to pick up the phone. That joke Vance would tell about the pirate, the peanut and the wide-mouthed frog. That day she found out that Theodora had an ulcer, even though it was about time. That jeweler’s ad, with the big diamond ring. The only reason that the one ex-boyfriend kept falling back on: ‘I just fell out of love with you…’ That pop song on the radio, with some awful shrill girl whining about lost love in unthinking trills. That old thought of herself, alone, and elderly, without a blanket to cover her knees, her cold feet. That expression the blond girl was wearing in the cheap clothing catalog. That way her mother would stroke her cheek, as if she were a house pet. That Zella was raped, that it always fucked up her relationships with boys, that she remained blindingly optimistic. That time the airplane dropped about 3,000 feet at once, everyone screamed, and the stewardesses hit their heads. That last day as a waitress even though she hated the job and everyone that worked there. That sun, finally peaking through wet leaves, its rays piercing the falling droplets. That warm contentedness that half a bottle of codeine cough syrup produced. Her boyfriend, too. He made her cry.