With its long toes and hooked claws, the nuthatch always maintains a secure hold as it probes into crevices with its upturned bill. At two o’clock on Christmas Day I sit at Rachel’s dining room table. I am one of ten people at a table intended for eight. I have not been in such a company of people for many months. Only two hours ago Rachel informed me of the plans for Christmas dinner and requested my presence at the table. Had Patrick been the informer, I would have flatly refused. With Rachel, however, I found myself agreeing to participate in something I had no desire to do. I did not trust myself to speak after the events of the morning, and so I merely nodded stupidly and turned away from Rachel’s hopeful eyes. Thus, at the appointed hour, only minutes ago, she tapped on my door again and said, “It’s time for dinner, Aunt Sophie. Are you still willing to come? Shall I show you your place?” I allowed myself to be escorted to the dining room, a room I have only walked through until now, and am seated to the left of Patrick, who occupies the head of the table.
