tonight marks the anniversary of all the buried nights before it. In remembrance we raise our glasses while outside branches bend or break in darkness. What remains, after we leave this life? "Footprints!" one friend says. "Love!" says another. Meanwhile the wind keeps making insistences upon the windows and the trees and the telephone wires above our heads. Meanwhile the city keeps dreaming a better tomorrow. We nod our heads in agreement, though secretly no one is sure, except of this: better not to sleep alone tonight. Tonight we honor the memory of every Saturday night before it, and I especially love the nights I cannot remember – surely some were magic. Surely once I must have touched the moon, or fell a wall, or crossed a moonlit field to Heaven. "Memory!" you suggest, and from the way you look at me across the table I just know you mean it. Maybe Saturday is too short for questions; maybe a lifetime isn’t long enough for the answer. Finally, when it is my turn to speak, I look out at all the beautiful, frightened faces. I look at you. The wind will take us home, and take care of the rest.