I wake up after he tells me he pulled me over for going 34 in a 30 zone.

Light is creeping in.

I put a $5 in the tip jar and start to walk out the door without the donuts. Then I realize my hands are empty. We both laugh and wish each other a good day.

Why does it feel like everyone is yelling?

Sometimes the bare minimum is the most you can do.

I move the chair to into the shade but stick my legs out in the sun. Sanctuary. I’m craving sanctuary. I want to just lay down in the sun on a blanket.

We walk down the street to the open house. Now we know why it still hasn’t sold.

He points out all the birds of paradise in the yard. I didn’t realize we had more than one. All of them are blooming.

We watch the hummingbird float in between us. “This is why we moved to California,” he says.

Making home.