On bee-sting nights Lilliana spreads her lap wide and lazy. We don’t remember seeing this hardness in her hips. She binds her heart, she cuts off her hair with pinking shears and lets it stick up ragged. Our mama sweeps up her braids on the front porch with her splintered broom and cries when birds steal the brightest. By nightfall the trees beside the river are full of Lilliana’s hair, shining gold and lonely.