It’s -1 degrees outside here in Chicago. That’s just the other side of the lookingglass, just beyond the knife-edge of zero, into the netherworld of cold that sends me under the blankets, under more blankets, wishing I could be reading Little Women or something, or maybe I just feel like Beth, the sickly sister, looking up from darning a sock to note that it’s minus one degrees right now and the moon is bright but maybe too bright, like it’s really a giant snowflake ready to fall once its heavy enough with ice and mirth to descend like that ball on New Year’s Eve, and we missed it, the countdown should’ve stopped at zero, but it’s minus one.