Friends. Family. Fat happy healthy pets. Employment. A roof over our heads, crumbling though it may be. Enough to eat. Potato chips. Football. Readers. Lots and lots of readers. Readers’ pet pictures on the Internet. The Internet. Good books. Good scotch. Good wine. Grandma’s voice on the phone saying, “I love you too, honey.” Weirdos on the L. Cold clear days of blue sky through the black bare trees. The walk to work. The walk home, even better. Hot cider. Bad jokes. A fake fire. The smell of a real wood fire up the street warming someone else’s home. Coffee. Warm blankets. The piano. E-mails from friends in South Korea, Morocco, Germany. Phone calls from friends in Amsterdam. Plans for home improvement. Shoes without holes in them. The way Bucky rubs himself all over the rug in the dining room like a furry little caterpillar. Car repairs. Plants that are still alive despite my best efforts. Sports movies. Taking care of shelter animals. The Good Wife, Lost Season 1 on DVD, a West Wing renaissance. Bars with dart boards and Harp on tap and real homemade hamburgers. Hockey. Patrick Johnson playing hockey. Mike Eaves rewarding his players for being awesome by smacking them on their helmeted heads with his clipboard. A family that’s as hockey-crazed as I am. Books. Friends’ book readings. Crack vans. A president who doesn’t make me ashamed to be a biped. A novel that is about a third done. Christmas music two months early. Turkey. And this:

A.