I went for a walk yesterday with Sophie in her stroller, and my frustration and anger only grew as I bounced over roots in the sidewalk and struggled to maneuver the stroller over curbs not cut away for the handicapped. A litany of complaints, bourgeois, the sun was still shining, and when Sophie had a huge seizure, I stopped and bent over her, containing her limbs as they banged and her back arched up and out, the strap straining between her legs, my breath a curse, many curses. That's how we do it, sometimes, pissed and bitter and filled not with blessing but with imprecation. That's how we do it. Afterward, we rolled down a side street and I sat on the stoop of someone's house and cried as Sophie continued to jerk, her hands plucking at the jacket draped over her. We sat there a long time in our separate worlds, and when I snapped the photo, I did it blindly the light in my eyes.