Dusked mirrorball.

One of the new apartment's tricks is that, as the sun starts to set, the mirrorball--hanging, as it does, in the middle of the living room window--sows diamonds of light on the floor and every wall. We noticed this effect in the old house, as the day wore on and the light moved around the dining room, where the mirrorball had landed when it came out of the living room. Now it is a tiny nightly glory.

A lightning bug outside my window glints frantically. Another blinks its way up the glass.

Near the bottom of the second box labeled Files and Papers, I found my father's blueprints for the adult-sized Sit 'N Spin he built in 2001. I put them in the file called "Lovely Notes." Not everyone's valentine arrives in words.

The cows moo their chorus, and I am down to my last four boxes--one of which I cannot unpack, seeing as how it's at least half-full of printed-out e-mails and archived hand-written notes from a long-ago somebody. These are papers with which I do not want to part, a "Lovely Notes" file all unto themselves.