the pulse, the breath, eyes open, the long stretch, the warm blankets, the bed, the sleep, the roof, the four walls, the peace, the safety, the bathroom, the running water, the boiling kettle, the electricity at the flick of a switch, the tea, the working fridge, the milk, the oatmeal and the fragrant cinnamon for later, the walking back to my bed on legs that are able, the sound of the birds outside, the ears that hear, the quiet words with the God of my own choice, the writing, the being able to write, the reading, the being able to read, the books that threaten to topple the chair next to my bed—the sheer number of them and the freedom to find them, the eyes that see, the sound of my boy waking up, the smile, the boy arms around my neck, the love that wraps me up and holds me, the light, the light, the light and the rain falling softly outside my window.
