Yes, there are the memories like little phylacteries strapped to our minds, and there are the ways we know our dead have worked inside us, when, for example, I touch up my lipstick in public, I, who never drew attention to my mouth, or overpack for a trip, I, who never gave weight to choice only to necessity, or love what she loved — the beach, the sun — I, who seek peace in the shadows of mountains and trees. But what is this deep, gurgling laugh from the well of my throat that is not me nor her mark? What is this laugh if not her, rising in me? Is this how souls come back to life — in our bodies? And is this how they keep us alive — with unexpected shocks of recognition?