My littlest sister braids her Barbie’s hair in the middle of her room, and brings some cogent questions: I understand the sun will burn out, but I need to know what’ll happen to our vampires. When sand vitrifies to glass during the final obliteration, will they puff to dust or whisper away over an unknown horizon? Her fingers stay; busy with Saran strands. Does anyone get to escape the apocalypse? Her inquisition strikes me too stout a subject for Sunday, then remember Armageddon is still taught in Bible study. She was born the last day of one long b’ak’tun, this morrow burrowed into a brand new cycle seeking novelty through timewave zero. Her obsession with endings isn’t a surprise with parting being such a sweet sorrow. My toes ache where the saudade lives and take time to touch her forehead with mine. How long will she carry me in her soles after my own uncovering? I tie off Barbie’s fishtail because her fingers aren’t dexterous, then tell her that the sun will swallow us whole, vampires and all.