At a poetry workshop on a ranch in Quartz Mountain, southwestern Oklahoma, I watched a man’s hands press together and open like butterfly wings.  He read to us on how he coped with his son’s death.  “I go alone into his room, sit down in his chair and begin to open the packages of too much.”   And I, unable to open myself, eyed his fluttering fingertips, thought about my own father’s broken child, remembered those every evening prayers at the table of my little girlhood, which hid my own father’s ache: “I can do nothing, I cannot help.”