It began, as it always begins, with a loss, lack, absence. A loss that occurred not long before I was and will continue long after I will have been. This loss was not, therefore, my loss and yet it is the loss that has, in no small measure, made me what I am. The loss was the loss of a nameless one — a nameless one who will remain nameless or who will be named only in the absence for which "my" name has become the mark. The loss had something to do with binding and rebinding — a binding and rebinding that were her death as much as my life. Always bound to a double bind, "my" presence has never been my own because it has always already been her absence. Have I betrayed her by telling you even this much? Perhaps. And so I shall say no more — at least not for now. But even this not-saying remains a saying, for I am always thinking about, talking about, teaching about, writing about what I am not saying. This not, which is almost nothing, is the not I cannot (not) think.