In March, the table has given up. Newspapers are stacked at one end, each filled with half finished crosswords and hiding parrots. The bills accrete at the other end. Popcorn and Cheerios punctuate the rug below it, while two of the lights in the chandelier are still working. It is a month of dirty glasses, sweatpants, and crumbs. We can’t find the remote, we can’t find anything on TV and we don’t want to open the shades.