Voices come down the hall and I cannot discern what they are saying. Male voices. A drone of sports. Clock ticks in the hall and I do not know what time it is. Crumbs from dinner on the table cloth and have we forgotten what we have just eaten? A television sounds from a room, silly sounds that make no sense. The heating churns on into the night that once again promises to be sub-zero. Wrap up, the newspaper says, wear a hat to bed! A hat to bed? Crazy! I mean, I am not going to wear a silly woollen hat to bed to keep my ears warm. He waits for me. He will warm my cold toes, I know of that. As I so often do, I will run them up and down his legs and wait for a complaint to come and will it? No, it won't come, because in my thaw, his ice will melt too and blend with mine and in the depths of eiderdown and old quilts, we will try with all our warmth to rekindle what was thought to be lost. What was considered to be driftwood lodged on the shore line.