There, crouched by the lily pond like a soccer ball, I know I look crazy, but the panic about my stove seems very real. I know I look like a desperate crazy lady talking to herself, rocking back and forth; but maybe this is just how demons attack. I am there, it seems, for a long while, repeating these words from the psalms. I mean them as I have meant very few things in my life, and I determine that I will stay by the pond for as many minutes, hours, as it takes, that I will not race home to behold my standing-up house, my not-on-fire kitchen, my half-eaten bowl of oatmeal resting calmly in
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