that night.
The next morning, before the boys woke up, I sat down with a pencil and one of my old yellow legal pads.
The first sentence I wrote was about toast.
Kora at seven on steroids, screaming because I had cut her toast into squares when she had obviously wanted triangles.
I wrote it because it was too ordinary for a funeral speech and too alive to forget.
Once I had one true sentence, the next one came.
I wrote about the horse book.
The nail polish.
The way
