It’s the second anniversary of my brother’s death. I roam the aisles of the Daiso in San Francisco. Beyond the ceramic figurines, she stands in the Life Coordinates section. She wears a thin old-timey nightgown with lace cuffs, wrapped like a kimono. Black hair lays lank around her shoulders, but she radiates bright white. She holds two different bra bags, comparing their quality and price. She asks me if I am lost. It takes me a long time to answer, “For so long I feel like I have been. The snow of my life has been deep.” She puts one bag back on the shelf, the other in her cart next to a half dozen mirrors. She drifts toward me as if floating. When her freezing hands gently take my face, I think my life might slip away into obliterating cold, but she simply says, “There is no snow here now. You must have dug your way out.”