Early morning. Pink light at the window. The cat, curled on the pillow beside me wakes when I do, gently taps my face with her paw. The furnace cycles on again. I must get up and put wood on the fire. The walls of the house creak with cold.
I draw the curtains, let in the sun, build up the fire, sweep ash and wood fragments into the boiler, turn up the thermostats. Time for coffee. An eagle, carried on an air current, dashes across the sky.
How lovely the light is, how cold my knees are. How age or winter undoes me, piercing my bones. It wrecks my heart to wake here without you.
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