When I woke up the second time you were already gone; I remember you looking back, hand on the doorknob, hat on, leaving. It was still dark then; cold air from the open window. Later I remember lying in bed listening to the sound of snow shovels and people scraping ice from their car windows, and the rumble of a plow down the main street, a heavy dragging noise.

This is what we did: we got in the car and drove. Highway gave way to two-lane and that wound through small towns, ended, forked, curved through fields barren and snow-covered and then eventually stopped at the sea. Gentle waves, the last remains of a pier, treacherous ice-covered rocks, leaden clouds. Eagles flying, and the sound of the wind a blanket that covered us both.