I’m rolling around on the back deck, trying to find a warm spot to sit in the sun. There’s a laziness associated with this activity; I don’t feel like going back in the house and asking for help putting my shoes on. Otto is circling me, thrilled that we are outside together. I can see my own reflection in the living room windows. My outfit is ridiculous, my hair is disorganized. I am spinning.

Last night after Scarlett went to bed, I was scrolling through emails on my phone, and I came to a Google alert letting me know that Amanda Bernier had died.

“Oh no,” I said softly, but of course Scarlett heard me from her bedroom, where she lies in wait for any sign of drama that might prolong bedtime. “What’s wrong?” she yelled. “Is Otto throwing up?”

By this time I was crying, and I couldn’t get any words out, and she had run out of her bedroom to see what was going on. Rob walked out of the laundry room, some confusion on his face as he asked what had happened. Read More>