Green beetles tick against the lighted windows. The crickets stay. I’m irritable on the phone, feel I’m supposed to entertain you, but I’ve had a stupid day and my only thought is full of complaint. You’re retired, and the delay on the long-distance line causes us to interrupt each other and to say with a harsh edge, “I can’t hear you; I’m sorry.”

There are more of us. We came out of a time when birth was happy.