There are fall sounds outside my window while I wake up: Breeze weaving through leaves and making them shiver, wind occasionally bumping up against my windows, and making their knuckles crack. Maeby’s whispering (snoring) from her bed, and Jeremy’s not snoring at all, but I like that I can hear his inhale and exhale. I can perch my head between his shoulder blades and breathe with him. It’s like a meditation. We have two panels of windows in this room, but it’s darker than it usually is—gentle on the morning eyes. All of this coincides with clean sheets, which is a special sort of magic.
I want build a blanket fort, and drink a mug (or flagon) of hot chocolate, and stay at peace for a while. I know that stress will impel me to get up before I need to. I’m keeping it at bay at present, but the to do list is just waiting to unravel at the top of my brain and cover my eyes. Hudson will, at some point, wake up, and every time I’ve tried to build a fort with him, he’s jumped ON the blankets instead of crawling under them. Maeby will eventually need to go out. The house isn’t clean and never really will be. The world will, in fact, spin, and I’ll need to balance on top of it.
But I want to remember the way fall taps at the window and slides through the blinds. I want to be snuggled by stillness for just a moment longer.
Good morning, Morning. Thanks for this.