You are not thinking about the needle anymore; the needle is thinking about itself, and you are free, and into that freedom rushes everything you have been holding off.

I did my hardest grieving at that machine, and my best remembering.

I would set a cuff the way her diagram showed and hear her voice explaining it, and I would find, to my surprise, that I was not only sad but also, underneath the sad, obscurely happy — happy to be near her in the only room left where she still was, happy to be doing badly the thing she did well, happy the way you are happy visiting a country your beloved came from and hearing, everywhere, echoes of their accent in strangers’ mouths.

My hands were learning her hands.