By the time I greeted the day, the mercury had settled some five degrees above freezing, and the sun was beaming down from a cloudless blue sky. Claire and Gunnar were long gone when I finally made my way to the kitchen, drawn by the smell of strong coffee that Claire had made and left warming. I poured a cup and stood in front of the kitchen window. Dagger-like chunks of icicles that hung from the eaves had turned into dripping faucets. Sunlight reflected off the snow in a shimmering carpet. I took my time getting ready—three cups of coffee thick with cream while I read the paper, a generous, hot shower followed by a lost hour of morning talk shows on the television. Finally, I was ready to go to my father’s house to begin the task of sorting through the remains of his life. I poured one last cup of coffee as comfort for the road. The walk to the car was made treacherous by a mixture of patchy ice and water that pooled in the laneway. The cold from the icy puddles seeped through my boots, but my feet stayed dry.
