No card, call, on my birthday. No, From Us, To Him labels on gold wrapped paper that cover boxes. At night, dizzying lights spin like a mirror ball against snow bloated trees and pin hole stars. No world events—did you hear what’s happened? What about that? Solar and wind and electric cars? How do they run?

Yes, time had passed, and I babbled on about you. Then, no, no—

In a chair, I tell your story, the clouds of smoke, you’re fourty-plus year habit. It crept up like a hand over a crypt that poked me in the eye and made my cheek twitch. It’s been fifteen years—what the hell is the matter? I blink the tears, take a breath, and straighten in my chair. No, no, yes, I’m fine. Yes, yes, I’m fine . . . this is the rhythm of time . . .