I cover myself with a thin robe thinking that might capture the smell of the breakfast sausage. It does not.

Seedy raspberry jam. Entirely too sweet but so good on a biscuit with melted butter.

Sometimes I wonder if she just pretends to not know the answers. Because, I mean…we do the same thing every day.

A little whisper of fog resting on top of the hill. Traffic is lighter than usual this morning and I’m grateful for it.

I feel like some people think I’m weak. I want to tell him that it’s okay. That I can carry a case or two of wine. Maybe it’s the wedge booties that make me seem incapable.

The cake is petit and looks fancy. Perfect for what we need.

Where is the water? We track down the sparkling but can’t find the still. I tell him I will email Abe in the morning. He tells me that he is Abe and so I shake his hand and tell him my name and ask him to let us know if it turns up.

I slip off my shoes t the door and then take my time, going through each room, opening the blinds, looking at walls and light fixtures and artwork. Thinking of ways in which it needs care and how we can transform it. So much potential.

Reworking ideas at the last minute which is what I always do. I will probably even change it the day of. I know this about myself.

I think about how her bike is gone. Stolen off the front porch. Why would anyone steal a little girl’s bike? The range of feelings one has about the loss of materials.