The grayest of days can turn the brightest of sunsets. Remember that.
Atticus is 12, and the happiness with it.
“Maybe she’s afraid of dogs,” answered my son as he watched both of ours lick the tiny, sweet hands of two small children whose mother was now fast fading into the careless shadows of tall oak trees.
In which I try to recall a wonderful night and a fantastic honor with varying degrees of success.