I never learned to cry the way television permits. Instead, I open a little window in my chest and let the air in and out until the wanting rolls itself small. This is one of the first tricks I learned. Another is to memorize the shape of the door from your pillow so if you need to run in a dream, you can run in the right direction. Another is to name the objects before sleep: lamp, book, sock, sock. Names keep things from leaving without goodbye.
Sometimes in the dark I talk to the ceiling, the walls. They are the oldest things in the room. The ceiling, especially, is wise. I tell them I am practicing being a person who is not surprised by kindness. The ceiling breathes and does not answer—probably because it does not believe me. But at least it does not call me on my lie. That is also kindness.
