The blinds bang against the glass, wind filtering through the open window and filling the room with a glorious chill.
I can hear them talking, my husband to our youngest Beastie.
"Be careful with Mama, she's still sleeping."
It is a luxury to be so loved and cared for.
They tuck themselves against me, pulling heavy blankets across our goosebumped bodies, and I know bliss.
We burrow in, deep contented sighs mixing with the birdsong outside.
This. This being in a warm bed with warm blankets and warm bodies? It is a gift.
After morning snuggles, grumbling tummies almost always follow, so we slip away while Daddy continues to rest in the nest we've created. Because there are breakfasts to be made and beverages to be poured and cold tiles to greet with bare feet.
I stand at the sink, up to my wrist in late night dishes left until morning, and a vision comes unbidden of doing the same thing in a quaint house in a tiny village far from here … or anything else we have ever known. There is a longing there, in my chest, as I turn my attention back to the task at hand.
A longing and a knowing.
And, this morning, that is a gift, too.