It turned very cold here in the night and when I woke this morning I could see my breath. I always sleep with the windows open. It’s a habit I learned from Tess. She loves a warm bed in a cool room.
I found the pair of thick green socks she gave me for my forty-first birthday. They’re made of cashmere. The kind of thing I’d have never bought for myself. She left them on my bedside table with a note that read, “For our winters.”
It doesn’t matter. They’re just socks, but on a day like this they’re a great luxury. I wear them with the ancient 501s she loves. The faded blue sweatshirt, once my father’s. My uniform.
In the mornings after I get dressed, I like to look down on the clearing from our bedroom window. Today I watched a fox cut a neat black path through the frost.
These things still bring me some pleasure. Our warm bed, socks, my father’s old sweatshirt, our animal neighbors.
I still open my eyes in the morning. I have not gone completely numb. I guess that’s what I want to tell you. I wake up. I get out of bed. I get dressed. I look outside. I come downstairs and grind the coffee, and boil the water, and unfold the filter. I still make toast, cut up an apple. I still light the fire. Somehow it feels necessary to say it, to make clear to you that I also exist here in my present world.