What I hear:
the washing machine downstairs is rinsing another load.
the heat just whirred on, and I can hear the fan through the grate.
I hear my fingers typing on the keys.
What I see:
All that is familiar about my living room.
The snow on the cedar tree outside, through the dining room window.
The shadow of tree trunks on the frosted plastic window insulation, highlighted by late afternoon sun. Jay and Liz coming back from working out at the YMCA.
What I feel:
My couch under my bare feet. the smooth keys. Baby davy is shifting in my belly, stretching maybe after an afternoon nap, exploring down South with a swift jab of its heel. I feel a pillow behind my back, and the bright sunlight on my eyelids. Warmth. Softness.
Hidden, unwritten, holding up and sustaining all these senses are the things I take for granted nearly every moment of my life. Sometimes it just takes a snow day to put things in perspective. That and long hours of quiet interrupted only by house noises.