When mom gets up at 1 a.m. just to dig in on that Irish soda bread. That’s a winner recipe there. I drop my head a little every time my residence comes up because I know what it looks like. No one needs the story about why it is, but there is a story, and so it is. It needed to be, and when she gets up and snacks and gabs with me when the house, and a lot of the world, used to be empty, I know why it was necessary. I drop my head, but I also wouldn’t want it any different now. It was a hard year, and now it’s a bit better. Getting better with every late night snack, gluten-free experiment, Sunday night show appointment, feeble yet heartfelt attempts to make real the illusion of time we think we have. Maybe that’s the thing that makes us drop our heads when our circumstances are not what they ought to be, according to some. The story we can’t tell, that isn’t welcome, that is every reason we could ever need to be just fine with it all. We can’t explain it to the world, why it is, why it has to be, and it breaks our hearts that we can’t say it plain or simple. Maybe it’s just me. Believe me, no one wanted better or more than I did. No one is more aware of the failures and flaws that led up to this. Maybe that’s the other thing. To wrap our arms around the life we have at this moment and love it anyway. Maybe that’s just me. I know that mom had pretty much given up on baking anything she would enjoy with the new guidelines, and that i pulled it off. I know the little warm ball of joy and even pride I have for being able to do it, and to be in the kitchen reading when she wakes up to have some more at 1 a.m. There are mountains of successes that I would turn away just to keep that.