On the calendar on the kitchen wall, November is little squares of days filled with jotted notes in mostly Stephen's handwriting. All the things we did, all the people we saw. I flip the page, and already the little squares of days of December are filled with more jottings. Things we'll do, people we'll see. With time, the tiny holes at the top of each calendar page, where the nail runs through to hold up the month, open and elongate, and I always have a little worry that the calendar will tear right through - but each new month slipped onto that nail adds strength to the whole. There's got to be a metaphor in there somewhere.