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The first frost of the season is still stuck to the edge of the windshield, the steering wheel is cold. When I turn my phone horizontally (How many nights have we watched the moon rise over the ocean?) the screen expands, and my great uncle’s funeral services are easier to see. I am sitting here, in our station wagon, in a parking lot, in front of a dance studio and an Italian Deli that does not appear to be open, and despite the cold I will not leave the car running because I understand the damage exhaust does to the invisible fragile air. (Do you remember scootching spotted toads off that muddy trail in New Hampshire?) I am watching my great uncle’s funeral via Zoom on my phone in the car because your friend Debbie’s funeral is also on this very same day, and right now there is a reception for her inside the bowling alley over to the right, next to a dog grooming shop. I am balancing the paper plate rimmed with green and blue flowers on my lap. I am taking off my gloves. I am watching my cousin cry at a podium with a malfunctioning mic, I am eating the chocolate Costco pastry that you brought out here for me with a folded napkin tucked underneath (I fall in love with you again and again and again), its corners touching like hands.