“It’s Quiet Uptown”—my daughter sings the Hamilton song again and again, accompanying herself on our little electric piano. “You hold your child as tight as you can / And push away the unimaginable”—drawing out that last word, riding it up and down the scale. Sunny this morning—let the weather be the first and only indicator of my mood for the day. We say unimaginable but we don’t mean it—the word itself is the kernel of our magical thinking, as if gaming out the worst-case scenario somehow forestalls it. Say it, don’t spray it: “I never liked the quiet before.”