How hard you had to work to get it done. They, whoever they are, say that death is like labor, but it’s much less clear what is born. I have an old address book open on the desk; I’m looking for whatever I can find of your remains here, where time is the manager of nearly everything. Winter didn’t want to end, but finally was forced to by the height of the sun. Also, I think all the cold air in the arctic had finally blown away. I wonder what it’s like there now. Cold is relative. I wanted to put you in a sweatsuit in your grave, but that pretty lavendar dress is taking its sweet time with you instead. Who are you in the world now? Almost nothing, becoming more so with every day that passes. If there is no memory, what remains?