I can duck into during daylight hours without shame. I need something that doesn’t feel quite so much like sweeping my finger across a candle’s tongue. Doc had hands like phone books. He cradled his shopworn copy of Dubliners as if it were a yellow bird. In Araby he paused to have us underline the fall of coins—traitorous?—and snaked us through emptying rows of stalls. It is an act of love to read aloud while rain pelts the asphalt. While she picks the damp fraying hem of her jeans. It is a chaste kindness to give voice to longing. To make safe that pocket of the heart where the one hand waits.