In Portland, the thermometer's hovering at zero. Up north in the homeland, it's -14, so I have no complaining leg to stand on. And in fact I'm not complaining. I like the excitement of cold, and I regret, now that I'm living the soft city life, that I'm not pulling on my insulated coveralls and trudging out to the barn and the woodshed as my skin stiffens and my tears gel in the treacherous air. The challenge of being flesh in a place where flesh ought not to be.

I've always had a soft spot for the stupidity of the polar explorers.

When we were young, Tom and I used to pore over the atlas and imagine ourselves traveling north, and north, and north. How did we end up retreating south, end up in this bayside burg, little princess of the provinces, with her boats and breweries, her snow-clotted streets, her strangers?

Saturday morning, in the Alcott House. A stone jar filled with bright orange gerbera daisies. A scatter of books, puzzles, games, pencils. Lamplight. A yellow chair. Glitter of a water glass. A white cat. Warmth stealing up from the registers. Steam coiling from a cup. Through the windows: a tangle of black branches pasted onto a blue-ink sky.

The present tense.

The present. Tense.