Lovely Inez

You know what they say: people end up looking like their dogs.

I don't totally agree, although my mother (with ancestry north of Warsaw) calls Inez an "old Polish girl." As for me and Inez, our dispositions are probably more similar than our looks: occasionally mistrusting our own kind, craving peace and quiet. Music is best at low volume . . . and for god's sake enough with the fireworks.

It's been almost three years since John opened the front door and found her there, just sitting, as if to say, "Here I am. What took you so long?"

In darker moments, when I find myself wondering if life might have been better had we moved just two blocks east, on the other side of the dividing line between relative harmony and persistent unrest, I realize: if not for this house with this porch on that particular night, someone else would have ended up with this sweet and complicated beast of my heart.