He screeched in laughter as the ball got to him, scooped it up, and threw it to an equally blond friend up the slope.But something caught my eye in th... shoveled sidewalk. I knelt back down for a closer look. My heart caught in my throat when I saw scratched in the cement, “Dag ‘03”. No. It wasn’t my Dag. But some little boy had scratched his name into wet cement. I could easily imagine Dag having done the same kind of thing when he was a child. These streets were his home. He probably grew up. We often looked at this magazine together when I brought it to her since it provided a pictorial backing to news that we had heard only on the radio. She opened it and flipped to the pages with the article and then held it out to her side slightly so that I could read over her shoulder. She had stepped forward while she found the right page and so, I moved forward to come to her left side but at the same time, she moved backwards and a collision resulted. I instinctively put a hand on her. More

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