Right now there is a bright-yellow-and-black bird — whose name I used to know before I started taking this pill called Lexapro, which used to help me drink less (though it hasn’t been working that well lately) — and this bird is singing, “There is a God!” Earlier today I went up to my sister’s house: I needed to take extreme measures, because I’ve been waiting to hear from a literary agent as if my life depends on it, and my brother has pancreatic cancer, and despite all the meds I am taking, pain was climbing inside me with a knife in its teeth. I’d tried healthy alternatives, such as calling someone in AA and planting cauliflower in the garden and standing outside under the sky, trying to believe there is a Higher Power that loves me, goddamn it. But the phone wasn’t ringing, and I was in pain, and my brother was dying, so I got in my car and drove a quarter mile to my sister’s house to get a shot of rum (OK, three shots of rum), which helped a lot. And when I came home, my cat had something pinned to the ground, and I walked up and saw this bright-yellow-and-black bird lying in the grass, dead. But when I reached down and touched it, I felt life in its body. Life throbbing all over it. Life like a chorus, a storm, a poem, a shot of rum. And I lifted it and flung it into the air, and, oh my God, it flew. A few feathers floated down as it soared past the hemlock and over the river. My cat got so upset it jumped on the shed roof, wishing it could fly after the bird. And I stood there surprised with a feather in my hands. And right now there is a bright-yellow-and-black bird who is singing.