Cold comfort

I don't have the stomach yet for writing a graceful tribute to Dad; there's no grace in what has happened. But I can't help feeling obscurely comforted by the weather: a "catastrophic" winter storm. Ice is coming down almost as if the sky is falling, which feels about right.

Of course, Dad looked forward to this sort of weather. He had his expedition-weight parka, too warm ever to wear, his industrial-strength flashlight, and his stash of Parmalat; I'd love to think he arranged it.