I tripped on the garage stairs on my way back from dropping Albert off at a choir thing tonight. It was more of a stumble, really; I easily caught myself on the doorknob at the top. The stairs were just chastizing me for having forgotten how cold it gets here—so cold that the garage can be used as an extra fridge for the bags and boxes of apples and oranges and bananas and mildly exotic fruit that my parents compulsively cart home. I used to slow, instinctively, to a cautious snail's pace at top of the set, then gingerly nudge around with a foot before daring to shifting body weight. Serves me right for having forgotten.