These mornings it’s still dark when I wake up. I slip into our bathroom to dress and brush my teeth before walking oh-so-stealthily by the kids’ rooms and then, as quickly and smoothly as possible, skittering down the stairs, though almost never without hitting a bunch of creaky squeaky spots. Creaky spots can’t be missed in an old house like ours—it’s full of them.
Once in the kitchen I turn on a couple small lamps, light some votives, start up the computer, and set a pot of water on to boil for my morning coffee. It’s quiet and chilly. I shiver.
This morning I had to run down cellar for a quart of frozen strawberries to put atop our baked oatmeal. As I crossed the deck on my return trip, I glanced in the kitchen windows and my breath caught. For what I saw through the fogged-up glass was my life as a memory, fuzzy and warm.