Snow falls like broken crackers over soup and I am worried the pipes will freeze. Tom says winter is overcompensating after being sick with fever.
A glorious week. The sky wore dresses not seen for months. Bees woke. And I made lemonade. Tom asks if he can scramble some eggs. I nod, show him where I keep the pans. Tom assigns names to each egg before cracking them: Percival, Annabelle, Lee—all brown and free-range. A turquoise origami bird flies out of the living room and lands on Tom’s shoulder, startling us both. Predictably, I grab the Instamatic.