We go to Graceland for the vigil, Hope in the same fuchsia tube dress she wore to our uncle’s funeral, but it’s O.K. this time around, nobody hissing about what’s appropriate, not in Memphis in August, 99 at dusk, the dew point making people’s hair deranged. We clutch our little candles from their cardboard cuffs, and mine keeps going out, Hope leaning over to help relight it. There are as many Elvises as Elvis fans, old and not so old and from the farthest reaches, rolling strollers, luggage, oxygen tanks; so many stick-on sideburns; so many ways to sweat. I don’t know it yet, but Hope’s blurred out on pills again. We both buy buttons with the lightning logo: Taking Care of Business in a Flash. One too-tall Elvis strums a ukulele, strolling up and down the line along the gates and nodding solemnly, the crowd just slightly hushed. Hope says, *Can you imagine being loved this much*?