Chasing a sun setting along Saturday's horizon, Lily runs through mid-winter's slushy woods. She isn't thinking about a twinkling hot orange smudged sky. She doesn't notice horizontal sunbeams soaking snowy ground. Evening shadows loom.

Today's warm beautiful light was going out as I snagged her toy and tossed it toward gnarled Mountain Laurels. Its pink blooms each spring are a surprise.

Everything is cast in a rusted hue of dusk's magic limbo. I breathe it in. I want to keep some of that faltering color deep inside. 

A small glow in my belly. 

Sparkling eyes. 

Of course the spell pops -- just another old birthday balloon. Life isn't shining.

Where is that thrill -- the oh m'god flop in my stomach?

I'm a little girl alone in a huge bedroom. The lights are out. Ugly, slow-breathing monsters are waiting. Sometimes bad news comes creeping out from under the bed to rip away a sense that the future is a safe place. It's not.

"There's no guarantees," he said.

"You do things right. Eat healthy. Exercise. But that might get you nothing…" I said.

"You were talking in your sleep."

"Oh, what did I say?"

"Flash cards."

"Flash cards? So stupid."

Lily and I head for home. "Lily, why did I say flash cards?"