I had just had my coffee when it was six thirty in the morning. The arm of my jacket sticking out from the closet, pinched in the door, no longer signified anything. It was just the arm of my jacket.
The headlights of cars leaving for work played around our kitchen and dining room walls like theatre spotlights during a shipwreck scene, and then the sun was up. The Christmas tree stood upright at the end of the driveway, waiting to be picked up by the garbage man. My scarf very nearly saved my life that morning.