My grandfather died when I was only 5 years old, and I remember little of him. My only vivid memory is of the day he died. He sat me down at the kitchen table that morning and produced a brown paper bag. "I have a surprise" he said and opened the bag and pulled out a doughnut. "That's it, a doughnut?" I inquired, unimpressed "Shut up! These are no ordinary doughnuts, they're the greatest doughnuts in the world!" he shouted, handing the doughnut to me and removing one for himself.

One warm, sunny day in the middle of December somewhere in Northern Canada (it was a leap year) Faustus the fox was wandering through the woods. Because of the ordinary cold Maine weather, there had been little food. The mice were hibernating, the voles were hibernating, the worms were hibernating, the ravenous grizzly bears were hibernating, the vending machines were unplugged, and the local merchants had fled south to Venezuela.

Why can’t I write for him? He’s the sparkle in my eye, the tingle in my guts, and the tickle in my nuts. He’s the icing on my cake, good for goodness sake, the smile I just can’t fake. He makes my blue sky, my pink rosy, and my yellow sunshine. Yet I can’t write for him, like I can write for others. He is the pickle in my pants, the twinkle in my toes, the glowy glow that shows. He’s the ultimate expression, an essential digression, a valuable lesson. He’s the one, yet I can’t write for him. The stiletto on my shoe penetrates the lawn and sinks me,