Sunday winter morning, sometime after dawn. You. Me. The empty street and the white sky and the telephone wires and the sparrows huddled underneath the bush outside your house.

Remember the lonely daisy-colored flip-flop sticking out of the snow bank and how you said it made you sad?

Funny. The sun caught your hair just so, and even down to the tips of your tiny eyelashes, every inch of you was light.You know, I almost said something.