Birds and gravestones make for strange neighbors. Here among the earthly remains of Detroit’s business and political elite, a fledgling cooper’s hawk perches on the branch of an oak, waiting to be fed by doting parents scrounging for lunch.

The Sights and sounds of North America’s oldest walled city thrilled me, but its steep hills and zigzaggy stairways kept me humble. As I navigated the city’s charms with my daughter Abby, I returned home with my own version of “Je me souviens.”

On the sidewalk below, there is a string of little people, each clutching a piece of neon green ribbon…

My youngest daughter called me last night to say she dreamt that I died of Covid. From my ICU bed, I phoned her to say good-bye, a heartbreaking scenario being played out in ICUs around the world.

New Year’s Eve. I ferociously slam the door on 2020 and look ahead. Past ICUs overflowing with Covid patients, past the miles long lines of anxious drivers hoping there will be enough milk and cereal left for their kids.

Spring and babies. They belong in the same breath.

Gale was my friend. She loved Starbucks coffee and chocolate.