She smiles to herself all the time and laughs out loud at the thought of your mannerisms. She sleeps with the TV off now and seldom wakes in the sad hours of the morning to the reminder that she is in mourning. She dares to believe that the sun has come up and the time for weeping has passed. She revels in this newfound disposition the way a pig revels in mud. She is the pink, plump, happy pig and you are her mud.