Today she finds a few gold snowflakes in her purse, relics of last Christmas or the one before. “I don’t know where they came from or what they’re for!” she tells us delightedly. Then: “I can never remember where I’ve put things these days.” Memory is both curse and blessing. She always offers the loss of it with a smile, not as an explanation but as a habitation, the place she’s speaking from. Her kitchen doorway is crawling with ants. A robin whirs out of the garden to eat them, then makes itself at home, on the doormat, on the refrigerator, on the back of a chair, its little dark eye cocked sidewise at everything. The robin is sharp as its own beak. Its memory is unlike hers. Its sense of ownership of its own time–the same busyness she used to have–is acute. Get ants, the robin thinks, if it can be said to think: Then get more.