Sammy is snoring under the kitchen table. The revelers are long-gone; all quiet now.

The last blowout was New Year's Day: all the farmers drove their tractors around town on their annual rally, this year in honor of my late father-in-law. Rushing home after walking the dog, I noticed the mother-in-law walking toward the queue of tractors, alone and small in her black widow's weeds. Afterwards farmers gathered in the pub, drinking to the father-in-law's memory, posing for a photo for the local paper. It felt like his second wake, and my mother-in-law finally relaxed, after weeks of fretting, hypercritical asides, and one blow-up over dog poo.

Now the husband wants to plan a trip soon, to Marrakesh or Tenerife, but I'm fretting over apocalyptic fires and the possible fallout over that assassination in Iraq. Fucking 2020.

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