I softly awaken in the familiar house—the grandchildren and their parents having arrived home from Wisconsin last night. I use the restroom, and without turning on any lights, go to the kitchen to retrieve my water bottle. I discover hot coffee. My son, one of the parents, kept it on warm when he left for work this morning. I am thankful.
I pour it into a teal-colored mug before filling the carafe with cool water and dispensing it into the coffee maker's reservoir. I swing out the small door than conceals a damp filter filled with grounds, remove it and add a new filter and two scoops of rich, brown coffee. I press large brew button that lights up to confirm that the process has begun.
I take my mug into the dark living room and snuggle back into the comforter. The sky outside the sliding glass doors is darkest gray; the bare trees that adjoin the river are barely visible in the faint moonlight. I think of the year I lived here, the days and nights spent pondering the river, my sadness so heavy that it held me captive. I think of my friend, a man I met when I first attended grief group. He was active in the Elks Club and I enjoyed the black-light bingo events with him and other friends who gathered there. The celebration of his life was this past weekend. He is reunited, now in heaven, with the woman he loved most—his wife.
My thoughts move to my husband—an image of he and our grandson decorating the Christmas tree at the Blue House years ago. I leave the nested sofa and walk down the hall to check in on our grandson who is sleeping peacefully. Tears fall.
In the time it takes me to gather my computer and begin to write, an unimpressive clouded day begins without the fanfare of sunrise. A storm is coming, my daughter-in-law observed last night, when I complained about the lack of whole milk and fresh chicken—empty shelves—at the local store.
The winter gray sky confirms her words. A storm is coming. The day begins.
