Despite an icy northeast wind huffing across the bay I sneak out after dark, after my mother falls asleep clutching her leather Bible, and I hike up the rutted road to the frosted meadow to stand in mist with my shoes in muck, and toss my echo against the moss-covered fieldstone corners of the burned-out church where Sunday nights in summer for years Father Thomas

I lost my pretty mother in a toy store. Entirely my fault. Despite her usual warnings, I wandered, I strayed. Up one aisle down the next. I became so bewitched by the dolls and accessories only after an hour did I turn myself in.