Eclipses Pending


There’s another solar eclipse pending–June 10th, 2021. Here in Canada it will only be partial and at the crack of dawn. I plan to get up not so much to see the actual exclipse happening as to enjoy the weird lighting and natural responses to the covering of the sun.

Birds get quiet. The earth seems to take a breath, as if it isn’t quite sure things will return to normal.

I’ve got a few wonderful memories of eclipses – like the ones I shared with my dad and family and the one I kept the kids home from school for. The school planned to keep all the kiddies locked inside to prevent them looking at the sun. I thought this was an educational moment wasted, so I kept them home and we designed the over the shoulder pinhole camera tubes my dad taught me how to make and we watched it all together.

Of course they were quite young at the time so I doubt they will remember. Honestly. I wish I had taken more photos of these fun times we had as they only seem to remember my actions during their teenage years which, frankly, were not representative. They were challenging times.

I also kept them home one day when they were curious about the human heart – I bought a beef heart from the butcher and we dissected it together so I could show them how it all worked. With that and a stethoscope they probably learned more than was strictly necessary, but hey, I was a scientist married to an arts major and I had to stake out some ground…

In any case, they did get to actually see an eclipse.

The best eclipse event, though, was back in 1972 in PEI. We were up at my cousin’s cottage when it occurred and my dad had organized all of us with tubes and telescopes (pointed down) to stand on the dunes in Brackley Beach and await the total eclipse. It’s the one Carly Simon sings about. Perhaps that’s why I’m so vain?

As the sun was gradually covered over by the moon, dusk fell. The hundreds of people gathered on the hilly dunes grew silent. Dogs, who had been barking helloes to each other, shut up. The seagulls stopped crying out and settled down as if for the night.

The dark grew. I haven’t seen many total eclipses and it is very difficult to view one without an animal feeling of dread. We don’t really bother to think about how much we depend on the sun actually being present during the day until it suddenly isn’t.

The sea and sky and dunes were completely dark. Stars appeared, taking an unexpected bow, looking a bit startled by their need to show up. Everyone froze for the seconds when the sun was completely covered and we gazed at the ring.

The silence was total for a couple of minutes as the moon made its careful passage. Just as the light started to increase, a man shouted “Let there be light!”

And there was.

Everyone looked over across the dunes to see who had shouted and it was a guy who looked strangely like the Disney Jesus Christ, complete with flowing robes and beard. Or maybe I just imagined that.

The crowd laughed in a relieved way – you could tell everyone had been just that tiny bit uneasy during the strange darkness.

I’ve stayed up in buggy fields and ponds to see asteroids, I’ve gazed at the special huge moons, watchbut there’s something so cool about a solar eclipse. I’m setting my alarm.

And now for a song…

Top doc confirms COVID causes uncontrollable need to do errands all day


Fredericton — If you find yourself doing five or more errands in a single day, you need to get tested for COVID-19 immediately, says Chief Medical …

Top doc confirms COVID causes uncontrollable need to do errands all day

My boobs are falling!!! Or, going feral during a pandemic has its consequences…


When I was a young person, I used to often wonder about the women I saw whose breasts seemed to lie about their waist. There was a long long slope to the eventual boob bits. Didn’t they wear a bra? Why did SOME women seem to keep relatively perky, whereas others slumped like melting ice cream into a gently rounded abdomen with no delineating characteristics?

I admit it, I judged. I told myself I’d never be in that situation, I’d maintain my chest muscles, wear underwire bras, stand erect, shoulders back.

That was before the last year and a bit. A year where I’ve pretty well been on my own and had no need to torture myself with garments designed to poke wires into my soft bits. A year where my “going to the gym” body has gradually softened and developed a pronounced jiggle. A year of slumping over my desk, reading stuff on the computer.

No matter, I thought. I can wear my Northern Reflections sweatshirts and no one will ever know I am braless beneath them. Not that anyone could see me, except on the rare occasion I shuffle down to do my laundry, skulking in corners and avoiding anyone else’s air.

The weather is getting summery. The sweatshirts are a bit…warm…and to be honest, I am sick to death of them. So I pulled out my summer shirts and realized with horror I actually have to wear a bra under them or risk public scorn. And or laughter. And/or an injury as I ram into things unawares with no cushioning sweatshirt to protect me..

I dug through my neglected bras, some of which still seem to fit me, trying to find the least painful one that could give me some sort of shape. The thing is, those mammary glands have changed shape with neglect. They are no longer at ALL perky, and immediately upon applying said brassiere, they pulled the entire assemblage down down ever down. I’m short, so they were eventually stopped by my waistband (there is a whole other area of saggage UNDER the waistband but I prefer to ignore that). But still. They definitely lacked determination.

I now have an acreage on the top of my chest that I realize I must accessorize immediately, preferably with something large. Something to draw the eyes up, away from the gentle slopes of DA. A distraction from the effects of gravity and inappropriate eating.

At the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Conference years ago, one of the standup performers talked about the perfect accessory for those of us with the need to distract. Her Dodge Caravan. She looked ever so perky through the window of that.

Alas, my Toyota Corolla doesn’t have enough height to fully disguise the slopage.

Fortunately, we’re still on lockdown so I have time to hang upside down and try to return things to their normal location. Of course, this may make Zoom meetings somewhat … challenging.

13 months after shutdown one, and the gal ain’t fine…


Hello, fellow inmates.

How are you all, in your various states of incarceration? Are you enjoying your state-sanctioned rapid races through grocery stores, averting your glance from the stationery section?

Have you, like me, forgotten how to stand appropriately except in line? Do you find yourself wearing a mask to bed? Alone?

I’ve lost a cog, myself. My skin is degrading through lack of exposure – not so much to air as to the laughs of friends, the scent of acquaintances, the wind blowing through my car window as I head off on an adventure.

We shouldn’t talk about my hair. I have some, and most of it is in the right places but other than that we shall maintain a respectful silence. It’s misbehaving though. Maybe because I have somehow lost all of my taming instruments when doing a madness inspired cleanse of my apartment. Perhaps, as a dog groomer told me once in all seriousness, the hair I brush off my head falls and re-roots in my face…

Still, I was hanging in there for the most part, despite a cross-country move and the consequent enhanced isolation. That is, until my cat died.

Didn’t handle the grief well. Then, I made a mistake. Desperate for the love of a cat, I ran to the humane society and adopted another, a known behaviour problem cat. No matter, I thought, I KNOW cats. I’m calm around them. I can manage this.

Did I stop to consider that I could have been behaving irrationally, full of grief and loneliness as I was? Not me. (Did I mention I have a problem with impulse control? (I blame the MS lesions in my head but that’s probably not fair as I leapt about before they started))

So I adopted. Only to find *this* is a 25 pound meowing constantly, shedding often, and pouncing mass of risk. With crazy eyes and the ability to fly across a room into window screens, claws extended.

A much calmer cat

It’s a bit alarming.

So we played until she fell aside, weary, and I fed her treats in an appropriate manner, and set up a cozy house for her to hang out in when she felt stressed, in fact followed Jackson Galaxy’s recommendations almost to the letter. He does know what he is talking about. Her hissing and panicking ended after the first day.

She grew more comfortable. Even let me touch her now and then. She can be quite cute. But the reign of terror started last night and I suspect she thinks she has the drop on me. Her pouncing became more aggressive, her demands for attention more strident. She begged as I ate dinner, claws into my leg, gently, but enough to let me know she could do more.

So, we’re re-evaluated. I’m too old to put up with a lot of malarkey, and the thought of spending the next 15 years of so wrestling with any irrational creature is unappealing. (This is why I live alone…) For her part, I think she’d prefer someone who a. had a bigger house and b. played with her more than I can.

Ah, pandemic thinking. It seems to have knocked me off the track a wee bit. How about you? I have eaten way too much chocolate, played way too many meaningless computer games, watched too much mindless entertainment. In my defence, what with the variants of concern and the politics of concern, my panic levels have been pretty near the surface. The temptation of having a comforting furry roommate was too much.

But a tooth and claw sharp one that is given to leaping all over me with all 25 lbs centred on her feets? Hmmm. Somehow that seems like one stressor too much.

An undisciplined tangle


Fourteen months into lockdowns from Covid-19 and those dang “variants of concern”, and it’s not only my hair that is sprawling uncontrollably.

I’ve been doing relatively well, not quite mad yet, participating in things via zoom and sneaking out now and again for distant walks with friends. I’ve been finding the endless warnings about “people who live alone” and mental health kind of annoying until now, as I spend hours stabbing embroidery again and again. I can keep myself busy. I like being alone. There are books.

But I’m slipping.

I blame my cat, Bendicks. He has been a warming presence, a demanding one, too, forcing me to get up to serve his needs, while giving me something tactile to hug. And look at those lovely huge feets!

Bendicks enjoys relaxing

But then he got sick. He’s an old guy, fifteen or so, and had been sick on and off despite multiple interventions, but this time he didn’t respond.

I’m all for medically assisted dying for people, having seen my parents writhe their way through end stage cancer, but it is such a hard decision to make for another, even if that other is a cat. Or maybe particularly because he’s a cat. It’s not like we could discuss things.

But I girded my loins, and with a dear friend beside me, was able to take the step. I thanked him as he slid away. The vet thought I was thanking her. I was not. But that anger is for another time.

I came home to my empty apartment, heart broken, and went on a mad purge, hiding anything cat like, giving away anything that reminded me of my little guy. It was cathartic, and besides, his fur was getting caught up in my tears and making gooey hair balls everywhere.

Fine, I thought. A cat-less existence can be done. It’s possible. people do it all the time.

But it wasn’t. Without another creature in my apartment, things became uneasy. The dark was unfriendly. Going to sleep at night wasn’t possible without that weight at the end of the bed, the head that would raise when I’d wake up, the purring. There was no frame to my day, no reason to get up.

I fight depression from my MS every day. I usually win. But I could feel the wheels getting wobbly on the bus, the tangles forming in my hair, the other vaguely appropriate metaphor for losing my mind…

It seems I can live without human contact for months and months and months (though it is wearing thin, I admit), but I’ve got to have feline company. I thought of other, less involving pets—a bird, a fish, a hamster—ones that wouldn’t require me to feel like I was trying to replace the irreplaceable. But they just couldn’t fit.

So I’m interviewing another cat today, via zoom, a ridiculous concept really but the only available one. It won’t be my lovely old boy, no one could, but perhaps a new friendship could be a solace as well. We’ll see. I’m a bit wary, still aware I’m not quite okay, but hoping maybe this cat will help heal my heart.

And perhaps I can do her some good, too. Cats is cats, and I am not expecting an immediate relationship, but then some things are worth working towards.

Wish us luck.

A no doubt (unintentionally) offensive little poem about people who are having a bad day and like to share.


(with apologies in many directions for so many things)

On the fellow who ran down the Capitol police, or the other guy who shot all those women, or that vile fellow in Nova Scotia, or …(insert tragedy here)

Individualism is all very well

Until yours sends mine right to hell

You may have a truly bad day

But you’ve no right to make mine that way

So please keep your self-pity on hold

You just aren’t that vital, you know

And don’t think you are right to kill

Just because your wee life treats you ill.

PS: Though suicide is often quite sad

And I so hope you don’t feel that bad

Please pause to have a wee think

About those you drive to the brink.

Killing cops so they shoot you is crazy

(Or maybe its just kinda lazy?)

Am I Non-Fungible?


I’ve got a headache.

I’ve been hearing about these non-fungible thingies on the inter webs and I simply cannot get my head around them.

For one thing, the definitions seem fungible: on one site it is thus: Non-fungible tokens, or NFTs, are pieces of digital content linked to the blockchain, the digital database underpinning cryptocurrencies such as bitcoin and ethereum. Unlike NFTs, those assets are fungible, meaning they can be replaced or exchanged with another identical one of the same value, much like a dollar bill.

So wait. A (an?) NFT is a FT? What is bitcoin in this non and fungible universe? Is ethereum a substance? Can I touch it?

And then there’s this definition of the general terms: (From an article that explains in language I find impenetrable that most definitions of ‘non-fungible’ are wrong. Really? WHO WOULD KNOW?)

The definition of a fungible asset is as follows:

(especially of goods) being of such nature or kind as to be freely exchangeable or replaceable, in whole or in part, for another of like nature or kind.

A non-fungible asset therefore has the opposite characteristics to this definition. Those elements are:

  • Unique
  • Irreplaceable
  • Non-interchangeable

The definition of a NFT is equally muddy. According to Wikipedia, it’s:

A non-fungible token is a unit of data on a digital ledger called a blockchain, where each NFT can represent a unique digital item, and thus they are not interchangeable. NFTs can represent digital files such as art, audio, videos, items in video games and other forms of creative work. 

Well, this all sounds simple, until one is listening to a news item about how people are buying Non-Fungible Tokens (NFTs) of shoes. Virtual shoes. That you wear on your instagram feet. That you pay actual hard money for. Or Bitcoin, possibly, but those trace back to cold hard cash as well. I think. Because Bitcoin is both fungible and not?

And then Wikipedia mentions this bit (accents mine): NFTs include links pointing to where the art and any details about it are stored, but the links can die.[5]Ownership of an NFT does not inherently grant copyright to any art represented by the NFT.[6] Although an artist can sell an NFT representing a work, the artist can still retain the copyright to the work and create more NFTs of the same work.[7][8] The buyer of the NFT does not gain exclusive access to the work,[9] nor does the buyer gain possession of the “original” digital file.[10] A person who uploads a certain work as an NFT does not have to prove that they are the original artist,[11] and there have been numerous cases where art was used for NFTs without the creator’s permission.[12]

Well, that all sounds like a great investment.

As a non-fungible being, I find this all rather a. confusing, b. stinking of a ripoff and c. criminal. I cannot wear virtual shoes through a rainstorm (not that I would want to given that they cost more than my entire wardrobe). I can’t even hang a NFT of a painting on my wall to look at – unless I staple my computer to said wall and never use it for anything else. Bitcoin sounds like a really good way to lose your money, fast fast, or legalized gambling (and we all know that in a depression we need more of those things. Because none of us are feeling desperate these days.)

Two things occur to me at this point. First, a lot of people have way too much money. If you have to spend your money on instagram shoes because you have bought everything else you need, you should perhaps contemplate supporting a person living in poverty and/or an entire country. Say the Sudan. Or the US. Because the money being spent on these ultimate ephemera is eye-waveringly massive.

Look at the prices on those tiny, very copiable images at the top of the blog. Or this.

(Would just like to mention the above is plagiarism of The Simpsons (an actual creative thing), ergo meaningless and perhaps illegal)

Of course this is when I realize I am becoming an old person. See, I even find buying music in iTunes vaguely uneasiness-causing. I like to be able to hold the things I buy in my hot little non-fungible hands and wave them about. Having them in a virtual environment makes them seem completely theft-inviting. Don’t we all remember Amazon clawing back books people bought for their Kindles?

And are those books fungible or non? If you can trace the purchase into the blockchain (whatever the f that is and I don’t mean fungible), apparently you can prove the thing is yours. Uh huh. I feel my cynical self making a wry smile at this. Good luck with that, my CS says.

A much more exciting Artillery Print

This reminds me of the Artillery Prints my ex was pressured into buying when we were posted in Germany. Everyone was buying them, they said. They would grow in value. They were a “good investment.” So ex went merrily and bought them despite their utter hideousness and huge size. We noted the ‘number of prints’ pencilled on the bottom. Ours were in the 200s. Never mind, we told each other, it’s still a small number, still valuable. Then we heard that since the prints were so popular, they decided to do an additional huge print run. Bing. Value gone. Of course, the huge frames they had to be put in are probably worth something. And we did have the dubious pleasure of having most of our wall space taken up with prints of people rolling various guns through mud (though they did dress well, and looked terribly brave while they did so). (note: CS (see above) couldn’t help but wonder how the clean and shiny lads were able to keep that way – did they have to paint the inside of stoves and everything with toxic paint as they did on the base in Shilo, MB – rendering the stoves unusable but very pretty?)

This all brings forward the ultimate point. Why are we buying meaningless things that are about as useful as those painted stoves? I say ‘we’ but this will never be me. First of all, if I am going to spend my fungible assets on something, it will likely be books or conferences or god forbid, medication for my aged cat. Or food. I like food.

I figure spending on things that can not be clearly defined is never a good idea. Virtual clothing seems like a bad choice in this climate. And I like to buy the actual art, thanks. The kind that smells of oils or acrylics if you scrape a tiny edge. The kind that has been known to persist for hundreds of years.

Now that’s a non-fungible asset!

I think.

real art by real artist (Gordon MacDonald at Argyle Fine Art)

FO FOMO


It’s creeping over me again…

That fear of missing out thing.

I’ve been so solitary for the past year, so shut down that I suspect I have forgotten how to behave in polite company.

I bare my teeth in a simulated smile at people I meet on my way about but of course they can’t see that under my mask. Most of the time I just do an eye wrinkle, my thoughts concealed. I’ve largely forgotten how to speak. I burst out with inappropriate things (more than I used to) when I get the rare opportunity to talk to another human. Even the cat has taken to raising his eyebrows at me.

But I’ve had a bit of bliss being spared the “fear of missing out.” My friends express amazement that I know as much as I do about what is going on, but it’s part of my thing to sniff out events, groups, places to go and be.

Unfortunately, this makes me want to GO all those places and do all the things.

This is unfortunate because a. no one ever could and b. I live with MS, which restricts my energy quite significantly, so I have had to learn to pace myself. Or have tried to learn this, to varying success.

So life becomes a series of “I’d like to go to this,” followed by “I’m too tired to do that.” (I suspect it is somewhat the same for all adults over a certain age…though I can assure you regular fatigue doesn’t approximate the brick wall of MS fatigue) I became known in my mind as the cancellation queen, and you could tell the things that mattered most by the things I actually committed to attending — my mad Halifax Ukulele Gang, my beloved Craig Gallery jobette, creative coffee with friends, breakfasts with another friend, wine on the balcony with others.

Of course, I moved in the middle of the pandemic, leaving all that behind in a futile attempt to be closer to my kids (one of whom promptly decided to move to Vancouver- I don’t think the two things were related…). So I’m trying to get resettled in at a time when things are shut down.

Which was, in its own way, kind of relaxing.

During the pandemic, the things I was missing out on became smaller and smaller in number. I no longer had the free-floating anxiety that used to fill my life about whether I was missing the thing — that thing — the thing that would be so incredibly fun or healing or beautiful or funny. Everything could be piped into my home in hour long Zoom sessions.

I could do so MANY things!

Of course I overcommitted myself and ended up in my old pattern of signing up for stuff and then not attending — but this time NO ONE KNEW. I could be secretly irresponsible! What’s not to like about that?

Now that the walls are starting to creep down I am feeling that pressure to join in again. To take pottery classes, support political candidates, join groups, volunteer, and meet new people and try not to terrify them with my inappropriate commentary.

Its all a wee bit frightening. Do I know how to be in public after a year of near-total isolation? Does the public? And most importantly, what will I wear? Everything in my closet has been turned into a fur coat with the generous help of an almost Maine coon cat who sheds for the cat olympics. The things hung out of reach are no longer in fashion, or don’t fit my covid body.

What to do, what to do? I’m going to have to be seen again sooner or later. I’ve become used to people not knowing my height. Or what I look like from behind and below my shoulders. Or what my face is doing when not concealed…

Eeeks.

Of course, I can retreat to JOMO, now that there are things to miss out on. Is there FOJOMO?

International Women’s Day, or here we go again with the platitudes…


I’m all for a celebration of women. As a gender, I think we’re pretty cool. And hard done by, in general. Just look at the housework balance, the pay disparities, the parenting gaps. The complete erasure of women’s accomplishments in so many spheres. So the idea of celebrating women’s accomplishments seems like a good one.

BUT. I can’t help but feel a day just isn’t enough. I’m with the folks at Black History Month who want to extend the celebrations to more than just the minimum. I mean, isn’t it a bit…urgh…to give Black History the very shortest month in the calendar? Whose bright idea was that? Was it a bit of a dig? 

Or the pink shirt anti-bullying day. Ugh. Kids are bullied if they don’t wear pink to school that day. I can’t help but feel this is a bit counterproductive.

‘I wonder if I can reschedule the grocery delivery for Thursday instead of Tuesday?’

Besides, shouldn’t recognition of bullying, women, black history, indigenous people, people with disabilities, and plain old white cis men go on all the time? Of course it tends to run to the latter in this list, so I understand completely the need for emphasis on the other groups, but it is beginning to seem to me that there are so many different ’cause’ days that the serious problems are getting lost in the shuffle.

Like the ongoing, paralyzing racism present throughout the world. Like capitalism’s driving of starvation and grinding poverty

Or the bad behaviour by so many men towards so many women. I heard this AM on the radio of a city councillor in Ottawa who has been sexually aggressive to his female staff to an unbelievable level, who is still being paid with the taxpayers dime and has not received any serious repercussions. He is still the representative for the women he abused. Gawd. 

Story after story of men being jerks scroll across my timeline (and trust me, I’m not looking for them – I find them triggering as I have experienced my full share of jerkish experiences) I DO know there are good men, I know they can act humanely and kindly and do good things. I also know women can be jerks. No need to differ with me on that score. But the balance seems to still be off. 

And I simply don’t believe waving an “International Women’s Day” heart on one’s sleeve will do anything to stop honour killings, rape, aggressiveness against women, even forced intimacies of the minor kind. I don’t think men fully understand the feelings of danger we feel when alone with them. 

Even friends can’t be trusted. An old (married) friend of mine once took the opportunity of us being alone in my apartment to press himself on me. I was shocked beyond the ability to respond. It’s damaged our friendship beyond saving, in my mind anyway. I doubt very much he even considered it out of line. I remain baffled as to why he thought he COULD do such things.

But I’ll just bet he celebrates Women’s Day. 

You good men and true, I salute you. You, too, deserve recognition. Maybe having a “Decent Men’s Day” would help rebalance behaviour. We could celebrate it on February 28th? (Just teasing…)

I’ve written a book about a woman who was massaged like Coca-Cola into a merchandiser’s dream. It’s called Recycled Virgin, and it’s an alternate history of Mary and her role in the Christian story. It puts her where I think she should have been, somewhat more in the centre of things.

While I was writing it, I was taking a course on Mariology at the excellent Atlantic School of Theology, under the patient guidance of David Dean. I remember knocking him off his heels by suggesting that all the difficulties with Mary (her ever virginity despite giving birth, her pure blood line, her lack of sin, her assumption into heaven in her full body – all things created well after the fact by clumps of men trying to persuade people to join the church) could be completely explained by making her the god part of the god-human connection, as vs just the receptacle. Those of you who read Catholic doctrine for pleasure (I realize there may be few) might look at the stories through that lens and see how they think they might fit. I found it fascinating to contemplate.

So, in honour of International Women’s Day, such that it is, I’ve put my book on discount for March 10-17. The ebook only, as this is all the mighty Amazon allows at present. Why not take a look and see if you can challenge that prevailing belief that Mary didn’t really matter, but was just a womb on sanctified legs. It’s alternative history. It’s fiction, but then, aren’t most of the stories we tell ourselves?

Check out my book here. If you like it, or hate it, or anything in-between, please take the time to write a review. 

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8th grade hazing, or Valentine’s Day Massacre


In the hallway the boys gather about in smelly heaps like old laundry, laughing and pointing and dancing in their ridiculously large sneakers. Hair sticking out in every direction, body odor of newly minted puberty encircling them in a miasma, they crow like four-month roosters, stomping their feet on the small pieces of paper scattered on the ground.

Each square has a blotch of red on it, some writing, a signature.

One boy picks up a larger piece and theatrically tears it into small then smaller then tiny pieces, throws it into the air like confetti. The other boys bat at it, sending the shreds flying around through the hallway.

The boys’ voices crack as they hoot and cat-call, which makes them shout louder. The teachers are nowhere to be found.

To the side a small girl stands, dressed in a slightly off-fashion red bodysuit and plaid skort, uncertain shoes, long hair massing about her head in a ‘my mother won’t let me cut it’ study of split ends and tangles. Head down, she tries to slip by, unseen, escape down the hallway to the exit, but she can’t avoid the tangle of boys, the shouts, the destruction.

The boys spot her, and the pointing and yelling sharpens, knife-like. Like a murder of crows, they caw in her face, pull at her hair, scoop up the shreds of paper off the floor and throw them at her. Winter gravel is mixed with the paper which stings as it hits her. The papers don’t fly well, and this makes the boys finally give up in frustration and turn away. They slam the doors open, shoving each other, grinning back at her.

One boy is quieter than the rest. He knows the girl, they were friends of a sort, of whatever sort boys and girls could be friends in grade eight, clouded in hormones and poor judgement. He shouts through the noise to the boys, “Let’s go, she’s not worth it.”

She looks over at him, her face dead. She’s frozen, mortally wounded, unable to edge one cell forward out of there. Minutes after the boys finally tumble out of the door and outside, away, she thaws enough to move.

Bending forward, she gathers up the shreds of her valentines, silent. Alone.