There is another world, one where my mother and father have not died, where time means absolutely nothing, where I can fly but it takes a little effort. There is a world where I can not only fly, I can run. There is a geography which embraces the places I remember, though some have changed. The landscape is smaller there. It only takes a moment to go from picnic tables crowded together outside the Catholic Church in Norwood, New Jersey, benches filled with my family and friends and neighbors and strangers, everyone eating a pancake breakfast that is just pancakes and a little butter, but that's OK, because they're really good pancakes, shrove pancakes, and maybe there ought not to be butter, but... wait, where was I? Oh yes, sitting outside the church, seeing Daddy a few tables away, mouthing the words "Aren't you dead?"... going from there to, to, to somewhere else. Somewhere inside, a house, a nice one but there are a lot of stairs and they are stacked in a spiral and I have to go down for stories and stories and stories and it's dark there but I just want to get outside and the only way I can do that is to spiral down the stairs, stairs, stairs, and where is Daddy? Sometimes I make it all the way and burst through to the outside which is a different one and the house is gone and it's so wonderful to be able to fly like this above Fort Lee and Secaucus and then a big swoop north and the Palisades looking like a painting from the early nineteenth century, so lovely, so swoopy, so lovely, so swoopy, so lovely, so swoopy, and the trees and the shoreline and where is Mommy? I want so much to tell her all about this because she can fly too, it just takes practrice. Wait, no, that's practice. What's practrice? I don't know, know, know, nononononononono.