Despite the cinnamon hue that hovers around her head, much of the time life drapes about her like the fading colors of a late fall landscape. Her movement withered, her body curled like the leaves on the lawn, dehydrated and dormant. She's quiet, her vocabulary blown away by neurological storms. Occasionally though, laughter unfolds. And I find myself wishing we could box up the peals, store them with emergency supplies, between bottles of water and boxes of batteries. Wishing we weren't going to run out, and knowing laughter will always be part of her legend.