It occurs to me a moment later that I have forgotten where I am. Dawn, here, would not be the chariot of Helios rising, but the drawing back of the coffin lid. As the yellow light, filtered through air made of spiced Italian honey, purged these shadows into rags and fleeing rooks, I should find myself looking along a road built on endless miles of the corpse of my son. The gloom is my best hope of joy.