20:15, silence. Neither fridge nor heater nor humidifier running, no sound of traffic.
Savvy slumbers, head on her blankie, beside me.
Cai is curled up in his little bed under the piano. All is still.
But our loved ones are our timepieces, and those with shortest lives faithfully unquiet us from stasis back into the quotidien. Here is Cuca to tell me it’s bedtime: the dogs must patrol, the birdfeeder must come inside, the human must give treats.
Tomorrow, Gillian’s throw will again await her shivering return; her mother’s piano will again await Gillian’s agile fingers.
Tomorrow, the dogs will again wait out another storm.
Tomorrow, upstairs, Cuca will again borrow the dogs’ travel beds. He found these today, within five minutes of my having pulled them from my crowded clothes closet.