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I’ll collect my memoir.  It’ll be messy, arduous, but I’ll do so with certain measured sophrosyne.  The Road is closer, and this night and the day preceding.  And now Emma begins to become undone, ready for bed and wanting more feed— poor Alice, always at her beck, call, more beckoning.  I overhear Alice say, “There’s a smile!” Hopefully her mood shifts in our favor, but who knows.  Parenting in the last few days has been trying for the writer, definitely knighting me a new cognomen, DAD.  Not sure if my memoir is for dads, writers, wine people, adjuncts, what.  Frazzle—