Mother always said this too shall pass. She said it about my lack of faith in timing the hard-boiled eggs, in God—especially when I’d gone astray, lost the Lord. When Daddy drank too much: this too shall pass. When I failed Algebra: this too shall pass. Mother hit menopause, wailed about the broken air conditioning, all the “damn Alabama heat”, the sweat stains on her favorite cotton top: this too shall pass, I said. Daddy lost his job, forgot to find a new one: this too shall pass. Mother worked two jobs, all the overtime she could find, her feet turned blue from standing: this too shall pass, she whispered into the PB&J she packed for my lunch the next day; this too shall pass told as secrets to the wet washing as she changed them over to tumble dry. Daddy flew off the handle, she said, threw her jewelry box from the second-story window of their bedroom, Mother crawled into bed with me, pulled me tight to her, the down comforter pricking me in the spots where the feathers were trying to be free: this too shall pass, we said. The tumble dryer rat-tat-tatting—too full, against the sheetrock wall behind us. Mother, meet Sarah, she’s my girlfriend: this too shall pass, she said and went back to the dishes.