My womb lies intact, unused. But on afternoons that stretch too long in gloom I allow myself to imagine her. Perhaps hair the color of cinnamon and a tendency to sink into a slough of despond. A writer, too, I wonder. Or just as easily a short order cook, a firefighter, a glassblower. Her hair would probably have parted to the left, her second toe longer than the first. She’d need spectacles from day one, have a weakness for blackberry jam, the minor chords, night over day. Odds on she’d be left handed and prone to itchy rashes that would randomly occur and vanish the same way. Her name would be Catherine like her grandmother’s. She would be no one’s fool and no one’s daughter.