Before bed, I text myself a reminder to write in the morning about the time I visit him near Crested Butte in October. It is my first understanding of how early winter comes to the mountains—the marvel of fall suddenly brought to its knees by the first violent winter storm.

I sit on my couch as social distancing becomes a hashtag and debate whether 7:30 pm on a Saturday night is too early to wash off makeup. There are things I can do in my apartment. I can finish the jigsaw puzzle I started months ago or read an unread book in my library.

I drove Bennet to the airport as he left our six-week-old marriage for his nine month tour of duty in Vietnam. He was dressed in a clean starched Army uniform. I was dressed in dread. After waving to the plane until it was a tiny dot in the overcast sky, I walked back to my car feeling as if he had died.

"You are a solitary," observed the attorney I had hired to draw up my will. She had asked me to list the family members and friends to whom I would consider leaving my worldly goods. Both categories were skimpy. Thus by her lights, my very small circle of significant people in my life qualified me as a "solitary," which would present not a small challenge in disposing of those aforementioned possessions.

“Hi, I’m Bunny, how are you?” she said. Her name caught my attention. “Bunny” is “an informal name of a rabbit, especially a small, young one” in the dictionary. I looked it up; those days, I carried a pocket size English dictionary with me.