Moving beyond this room, this glance includes Chloe, ancient and wizened, perched on the back of the sofa in the living room downstairs. Her little fountain-like water dish lapping in the corner, specially installed for her because she only drinks moving water. How long will it take for her to realize you’re gone? I can just see her now, her brown sausage body and delicate little paws, mincing about with great, indeterminate purpose. And in this glance Al, an anxious golden Lab with a human face, rummages around the backyard for smells. He always reminded you of a mugging comic from the silent film era, wearing each expression a bit too broadly. In this glance are the chairs in the dining room, wearing our winter coats on their rounded backs like the furs of fancy ladies at a gala. And the slick of oil shimmering silver and purple in the puddle under the car, like fish scales. In this glance is the front yard, the street, the wind passing through our naked poplar tree. How does this sound so much like a river? And what is wind and how have I grown so old without knowing? The sun acknowledges every fold in the snow. Every dormant swimming pool on the street lies still and quiet, looking into the sky. Like all of the other underused things in the neighbourhood, these pools wait with patience to be acknowledged.