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After many years residing elsewhere, I arrived in Wisconsin on the seventh day of August in 2006, destined, in all likelihood, to live out my life in this little town. That was precisely six years after the day that my beloved son died at age eighteen. You have perhaps heard me expatiate upon these events.
Can you, too, think of days of the year, not days of official commemoration, but ordinary days, so rich with reminiscence that you know them in your bones and have no need to mark the calendar? Which ones are indelible in your mind? If you would care to share stories of superlatives or sublimities, someone, I suspect, will welcome you to tell them.
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