I sit and eat panna cotta from the big plastic trough with my tiny red-handled spoon, the Italian gelato rich and creamy, outrageously sweet, swirls of caramel drizzled over it. No surprise, I am greedy. I want more caramel. I imagine the cold chewy rivers of it bending between my teeth, melting in my mouth, if my own more generous hand had held the ladle. (Whose voice is this?) I spoon sweet mounds into my mouth, cold tongue. It is all a part of a piece these days and weeks, this relentless keeping at bay all the things that await doing in my world right now. Cold gelato pushes down the almost unendurable anxiety at the base of my spine. I run my frozen tongue over the spoon and purse my lips, not smiling.