Mary and I are still getting used to the idea that both our mothers died within a week of each other over the Thanksgiving holidays. It's one of those things where you're going along through your day, lifting the phone to your ear and stopping people in the hallway, and suddenly one or the other old face floats up, and you realize you'll never be able to talk to them again, in this world.

We're taking a few extra days around Christmas to make up for the vacation we didn't have at Thanksgiving. It's a time to sit in our living room, noisy flames in the fireplace, cats taking turns getting up on our laps, while we talk, listen to chorales, and watch the lights flicker on the Christmas tree by the front door. Christmas in Texas is much colder this year, the black highways sheened, thousands of tiny taps falling on our skylight each evening.

I'm working on the short story VISIBILITY, which I hope to finish before the end of the year, each visit to the draft lengthening it a paragraph or two, like laying out a flagstone path.