I am here. Hot molasses-buttered bourbon-currant-almond wheat toast and strong milky coffee. A baby sleeps. Fresh snow, again. And again. Bright light, bitter cold, the longest winter, two metres of snow in total, eight inches linger on the ground, waist high in the plowed piles and drifts. My neighbor passed unexpectedly yesterday, shovelling his front walk. Heart attack, up and died. Brutal, and relentless, this season. Ice Queen, can we appease you, please, with some Turkish Delight? I’m ready to break this spell, or otherwise climb back through that wardrobe, past the frozen lamppost to step through moth-eaten furs into a coal-warmed library and a leather easy chair, a hound at my slippered feet.