It's early on a Friday afternoon, and we're listening to Aretha. It's cold. I'm on one couch, tucked up with a blanket, hot water bottle, and a bowl of soup. Joe is on the other with his little crocheted afghan, and a hot water bottle his dad made for him. He's napping, but any time my spoon hits the edge of the bowl, his eyes open, just in case it means I've had enough. Vincent is at his desk, working. All you can hear, besides the music, is the whirring of the heat pump, and the sound of laptop keys.
Sometimes, life feels perfect. It's most striking when it feels like that in the same week as a catastrophe (major or minor), and when there's uncertainty on the horizon.
To life, and its unpredictability.