After we buried Leone, Ofelia could not get out of bed. The mild weather at the end of January changed to a cruel cold in February. We closed the drapes to insulate against the chill, burned coal in the furnace, kept the fires lit, ate hot oatmeal in the morning, soup later in the day, and drank pot after pot of tea. Cold crept along the floorboards, licked the corners, hit us in banks as we came downstairs or passed by windows and doors. We dressed in dark colours, though it hardly mattered. With the drapes drawn, everything was cloaked with grey, dimly lit. I collected the mail and opened each letter of condolence sent to us from around the world, then took them upstairs to Ofelia. She kept her eyes closed as I read them to her, her chest rising and falling slowly, her breathing laboured
