Hazzley stared up at the falcon and thought of Addie. The clarity and immediacy of sorrow, the devastation of loss.

She thought of her own path over the past three years. Good grief and bad. Or maybe, she told herself, all the grief just sinks to the middle, somewhere in between. A muddle of grief.

“Look at me,” she said aloud, still staring at the falcon. “I’m trying not to be at a standstill. I thought I could empty the house and change my life in some unknown way, but I got stuck after three rooms: Lew’s office, the dining room, a spare room upstairs. The basement is the obstacle. I’m not even sure of what I was trying to accomplish. Maybe, in the new year, in the spring, I can face a move. Would that surprise anyone? Sal? Cass? Probably not. I could move to a smaller place that would suit me better than this great big house. First things first, however. Addie is the one who’s important right now.”

The falcon flew off.

Hazzley refolded the paper, put on her coat and boots and went out to the car. She placed the paper on the passenger seat for Tom. The two of them could talk this over when she picked him up at his house. First, she had to get him to his appointment. He’d phoned a few days earlier to ask if she’d drive him to his eye appointment and home again. He wouldn’t be able to drive while his pupils were dilated, he said. And he wondered if she’d mind.

Of course she wouldn’t mind. After she’d replaced the receiver, her memory recited: ophthalmus, Greek root, “eye.” Her brain worked that way; she made no excuses. She was glad she could remember Greek and Latin roots. Long-term memory was a blessing, and she hoped it wouldn’t go away. Keep adding to the store, she told herself.

Tom was good company. He’d mentioned that he’d be flying west to visit his son’s family for five days over Christmas. Hazzley would be in Ottawa over the same period, staying with Sal. She’d be happy to catch up on the lives of her grandchildren, who would all be home. And there was plenty of snow in Ottawa. More than Wilna Creek had received so far. Hazzley decided that she’d put her snowshoes in the car, just in case.

Maybe she would ask Tom about the snow poem. Ask if he knew the lines she couldn’t place.

As I look over the

White and soundless world.

His appointment wouldn’t last long—an hour, maybe. She could read or do the daily puzzles to fill in the time. The clinic had a small coffee bar in the pharmacy on the main floor of the building.

She had no idea if Tom was having a problem with his eyes. The appointment was probably an annual check. Everyone their age had their eyes checked. She’d had her own appointment a while back, and as ever, the doctor had commented on the abnormally large size of her pupils—without drops. Something she never noticed in the mirror or thought of at all until someone brought it to her attention. Not that she’d ever been blinded by a blazing surge of insight. No, she thought. Insight seems to be portioned out in stages.