Momo has been dead for a year. It doesn't seem like it's been that long. I can still feel his bony brow and soft, floppy ears. I can still hear him fall up the stairs. Summer is coming and it reminds me of the long hours he'd spend lying in the sun, so still and calm and wise-looking, like a furry monk in meditation, at one with the earth and her creatures, butterflies dancing on his ribs.

The sun is shining. Strong. The river is no longer icy. I actually got excited to see a piece of driftwood bobbing slowly along close to Mooney's Bay. The sky is a gorgeous soft blue. Nenna went outside and laid down on the back steps after doing her business, enjoying the warmth and sunshine, like Momo used to. All that was missing was the butterflies. I left the back door open and listened to the birds tweet with an urgency that reminded me of a group of five year olds on Christmas morning. Hurry, the sun is here! I can't believe it! The Sun! Everybody! Wake up and enjoy! I turned down my television and enjoyed listening to their apparent sun-drunkenness. The morning was just chill enough to bring a crispness to the air that enlivened my flesh, while my eyes were blinded by the bright rays, squinting in the glare, threatening to send me to sleep.