She pronounced it without the “L”, insisted it was a quality of which we men should avail ourselves (true, my pain so often masked itself as rage). Thus some of us scattered our rusting armor over the landscape of our sins. It is winter now and also, for me, the other winter that has no spring. Our world has turned dark and fascists have risen from their graves. My imperfect life weighs on me. And this day, in the bitter cold, I would have at least my breastplate back.