I’ve become a tiller of the soil, and a tiller of the soil has to plan ahead. I was probably never anything but a frustrated tiller of the soil. Maybe my grandchildren would have turned into frivolous butterflies. My children rejected all responsibility. I’ve stopped giving life and death. Even the solitude that has kept us company for so many generations dies with me. That is not good and it is not bad; it simply is. And how do I spend my days this winter?
