Clear Sky.

The Sunday Roast had not gone well. The Toad is nearly two, and sometimes remembers that, acts like it. She took him for his bath and I walked out the front door into the cold of the evening to get the box of diapers from the car, and there it was, that thought I'd had so frequently sixteen, eighteen, twenty months ago: I could just keep walking. It was never a thoroughly honest impulse—even in those dark first few months, as summer dried us to ash and the Toad reordered every piece of what I'd ever known, I knew I'd turn around, walk back in the door—but it was right there anyway, that not-quite need to flee. And then I looked up, and hanging in the eastern sky, well below the moon, was Mars, glowing truly red, not the half-tone it sometimes is, and the rest of the sky was planetarium-field-trip clear, and my first thought was, I have to go in, go get him, show him this.

He likes the sky, likes what's in it. I have tried not to love him. I tried again tonight.

There's an outside shot at the lightest of overnight snows. Because it is the weather, I tell you this.