Funny how my scars throb along with the learning about lament. Rose and Kivivuori talk of psy- and my breast-ribs burn. The sunlight is streaming in and there’s a fire in the firepit that winks blue and pink in my mind’s eye – Sara’s trousers, Mari’s romper. They’re talking, so I won’t go over even though I’d like to. The snow was too soft today to make water drawings, or at least to make the kind I’d imagined. Even a spoonful of warm water went straight through to grass, the snow capitulating fluffily. Bright green under sparkling white, moist and preparing.