Went out to the porch after dinner. Very cold. A solo cup of cranberry
juice had frozen into a block. Winter, generally, is morally elevating.
It creates opportunities for resourceful behavior. But not everything
fares well.

Ozzy came out on the porch in pajamas, her bad mood writ large upon her
brow. The other day I watched her return home from an errand. She walked
slowly down the block with a book of Russian poetry in hand, stumbling
over obstacles. A neighbor passed, chuckled and turned around. "How do
you read AND walk at the same time?" he asked.

"I fall down a lot," Ozzy answered.

She had the same book tucked into her pajama pocket when she knelt on
the porch step. I advanced the cranberry juice into her line of vision.
Ozzy's been grumpy lately-- she wanders around knocking things over
without picking them up and complaining of a bad taste in her mouth. I
thought the block of juice might inspire a giggle.

"Oh look," she said, noticing the cup. "Is that yours?"

I nodded. She applied her finger to the surface and held it there.
"I'm a few degrees colder," she decided, and stood to go back inside.

"Stay out here," I appealed, "It's dark inside." The door slammed shut.
Bare feet shuffled down the hallway and I heard her recite a line to
herself: "In this dimness let me dim." The noise of footsteps receded,
and I was left to conjecture--from the pajamas, the book, the defeat--
where Ozzy had gone.

Write back,

Cassidy

index