That sentence sounds cold when I say it now.
Maybe it should.
But cold is not always cruelty.
Sometimes cold is what is left after the last warm thing in you stops trying to survive on scraps.
On Christmas Eve, my kitchen smelled like roasted turkey, honey ham, cinnamon cider, buttered potatoes, and the pecan bread Richard used to bake every December.
The windows over the sink had gone black with winter.
The clock above the stove clicked at 8:40 p.m.
Every tick sounded louder than the one before it.
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