He died at 9:52 in the evening on the fourth of March.

I was one floor below, awake, on a regular postpartum floor, in a room with a window, having been extubated for thirty-one hours.

People ask — kindly, and they cannot help it — whether I felt something.

Whether at 9:52 on the fourth of March there was a moment.

There was not.

I have gone back to it with a therapist about nine times looking for one, because I wanted one very badly for about two years.

There is nothing there.