Trapezoids of sunshine streak over the floorboards, heating our feet. The air is cold but the light is warm. A baby who is a toddler takes up all the space on my lap and a preschooler who is a little lady weaves imaginary tales at the kitchen table.
The microwave beeps an alarm: oatmeal approaching. I cross the room, bare feet finding the light and heat, shying from shadows.
The sky is so blue outside that it might be spring, but the trees are so grey that it might be death. I shake off last night's dream -- a failing baby boy -- and steam my face over the bowl of oats. Life is sweet and clingy this morning, and it's so, so soft. I wrap myself in its cashmere arms and burrow into its silken folds.
Lauren giggles and Landon finds a fallen grape. The calendar on the desk is empty today: fresh with nothing.
It is well.