Sipping coffee from a small yellow cup, I sit near the cat at the window. She presses her body against the crack at the bottom, the white-painted frame with its old glass boosted up a few inches with an empty beer bottle to give air. She watches the cars pass on the street below, sees the birds land in the tree beneath the window.
The walls are white, tall, quiet. At night we fall asleep to the sound of a train, a familiar disturber of dreams. Other times, sleeping on the hill in the coldest winter, under big sky and in snow drifts it sounded gauzy, far away, my teeth chattered, laughing. Later it would explode into the bedroom, light the walls and scream, blow the candles out, we’d sleep in the snuff of smoke. Now it creeps through the spaces between buildings, catches us from the other side, its sounds distorted.
We have been unpacking, slowly, using this space as another temporary home, examining our possessions, what to keep what to throw what to let fall away into the arms of others.
It is a slow life, waking before dawn, driving through fog and cornfields, over the crooks of mountains into the smoking valley below. But it is Saturday, and so I will sit at this table for awhile longer.