Then I go inside. B y morning, the snow is almost gone. I stand at my window, staring out at the green, sunlit backyard. I can see a corner of one of the cabins. The roof shingles are furred with thick moss. Come spring, I imagine that tiny flowers will sprout up from the mossy patches. I should have added power-wash roofs to my list. And advertising in more in-flight magazines. I’ll have to tell Daniel those things face-to-face. Outside, on this Christmas Eve, the day is both sunlit and gray. A light rain is falling; the drops are so thin and tiny they’re almost imaginary, like tears. And suddenly I am thinking of Stacey. I remember that last night in Bakersfield when she asked me to come to her wedding. And showed me her pregnant stomach. I’m sorry, she’d said. I remember her on television, crying for me, believing in the miracle of my return, hoping for it.
