It isn’t becoming any more obvious, with the passing days and passing years, how the days will end, how the birds will stay aloft, how the dining-room tables remain a place for the collection of things unimportant or forgotten or simply tossed down upon entering, coming home, getting warm, the heat still on, the power still on, the children still tossing their hands up toward you, the animals about you, carrying one of your slippers, carrying hope. One more day passing. One thing tossed down, aside. A thing tossed and chased after and returned and returned and returned. How cold it is at night. How difficult to know. How glorious. The day ending. Night fallen and curled around itself, asleep on the floor. Another night tossed toward you, hard enough to hurt, and falling.