Wondering
It’s that time of year when I cry, more than usual, over little things—Bing Crosby warbling White Christmas, the death of a chickadee snatched by a hawk at the birdbath, and, of course, the courteous driver who let me have the last parking spot at Costco. My weepiness isn’t new, but somehow, this year my tears are less superficial. They’re erupting from the heart, most often followed by recollections of…