The lesson I remember best from social studies class is the shuffling of tectonic plates. The world a sheet of land, moved by the rumble of something that waited long enough. There are days I think about the ground shaking itself apart, waking what's buried, forming wide fissures, water through the cracks, water, too, filling in an attempt to repair. Last night, I hung up on the person I love. This morning, I burned the honey, the gold of it a black crisp on the pan. Both these instances make me feel the same sense of guilt, one mistake coursed through another.