My dad sleeps, curled on his left side, downstairs on my couch where he feels most comfortable in the breeze blowing through my townhouse. He’s wrapped in a quilt my mom made, one so loved that the edges are coming off and the batting flutters in the breeze.

The kittens are shut up in the basement for a while so that I can try to get them to use the litter box . . . They will curl into balls on top of one another or shrink themselves into the ceiling to hide . . . But for now they are content. . .

I sit here, the computer’s gray glow lighting up my office in this early morning. I have gazed at emails and stared at friends new babies on Facebook. I am sipping coffee that I made too strong in an effort to not wake Dad by turning on a light . . .

The crickets still sing, quietly, like the murmurs of children as they drift off. . . Traffic picks up on 40 just over the little hill . . .

I breathe deep and in . . . here, now . . .