In bed the night before last, images of large and heavy loudspeakers carefully maneuvered into their old shipping cartons and up the narrow flight of stairs from JA's listening room, around a tight bend made tighter by piles of shoes and other things, and up another flight into a hall separating dining room from living room. One heavy step at a time, carefully.

"One two three up, one two three up, one two three up."

"Good work."

I remembered restless nights after long days at Suntan Lake, somewhere in childhood New Jersey, days spent struggling through the waves and fighting the large fountain that shot upwards for what seemed miles. Those nights in my small bed absolutely exhausted and feeling wave swept still and weary armed, as though I was yet under water.

"One two three up, one two three up, one two three up."

"Good work."