This past year, you’ve often had to make do.

Your dad sent you a penny the other day, minted in his birth year.

One person. Two, twelve, twenty, you can still feel alone in a crowded room if it’s a place you don’t want to be. People say, though, that that’s no way to do the holidays; you’re supposed to Make Merry, even when your heart’s not in it. You’re supposed to feel happy, no matter what – even when, as in “The Dogs of Venice” by Steven Rowley, the Christmas tinsel seems tarnished.

You just can’t hold still.