Some days I want to withdraw from the whole thing, forget about it, pretend that everything is what it was in September, that life is poetry, practice, the worst of it Paris burning. There are metaphors for change: the weather, clocks, aging, death, redemption. I’ve changed clothes, cars, homes, furniture, point of view, even sex drive. That was a big one, who expected that to vanish. I can’t find a metaphor for a son becoming a daughter, can’t find the language for that conversation. In my memoir, this chapter never existed.