In the sculpture, Aeneas wore a helmet, heldhis son’s hand, and carried his thin father,weathered and wild-eyed, but alive. My fatherwas bearded and wild-eyed before he died.My son was ten days old and sleeping all the time,and though I do not pray I knew if only onecould live, it should be him, little belly littlebrain, hand curled tight around my fingeras I nursed him down to sleep then drovethe unlit road back to the ICU to find my dadnow clutching at the family gods and spitting: Back!at an approaching nurse, and then to me, quietly:Who can I trust? as I harangued the doctorsfor more drugs. I could not carry him away,and like Aeneas, I made mistakes. He died. A wholelibrary burned down. The myth of my autonomybegan to fade from my own system of belief.Instead, a chemical intelligence was using me—mother, daughter, vehicle—to change and recombine,each body cast aside in time. I washed my handsin running water. I changed clothes in the garagebeside the washer. I watched everybody sleep.Some carried their fathers on their backs, somefled with children from wasted cities and armed attacks.What can’t be carried can be scattered on the water.