down to 250ml, my friend’s mother gasps for air at a quarter of a liter throughout the day as he watches over her until she falls asleep in the early morning. another friend brings his daughters, all three of them, and they fill my house with squeals of laughter, running between and over us. my father pines for the earliest recording he has of his father singing, his voice tinny, hum and hiss filling the speakers, the distance between the microphone and the music. in our room, my wife brushes aside my hair to kiss me, our son cooing in the same bassinet our daughter once slept in. the night is cold and clear and the fierce wind has died but holds no promises for a calm winter.