good morning

I did not want to make the bed this morning. I rarely do. It seems its own kind of undoing, straightening what will only be disordered again by night, and there are mornings I leave it as it is and let the day start around it instead.

Today I made it anyway.

The blanket had slid, as it slides most mornings, entirely off the right side, leaving one corner hanging loose toward the floor. No matter how I set it the evening before, by morning the right side has surrendered and the left side has kept everything for itself.

I pulled the corner square first, fixing what was nearest before turning to the rest.

✧

Then I walked around to the left side to even it there too.

The window is on that side.

Through it, the mountain rises the way it always rises, and below it the creek runs the line it has run since before I came here. Neither had moved overnight. I’m not sure why I expect, some mornings, that they might have.

I noticed the sun touching the tops of the trees. It was beautiful.

And then I turned back to the bed.

✧

One pillow lay on the floor, where it lies most mornings.

I picked it up.

I sleep with the other and stack them together at dawn. There’s a reason for it, or only a habit that has worn the shape of one.

I pulled the last corner square.

The air outside looks crisp.

No need to leave the windows closed.

✧

This letter is now part of the Conservatory — those who find one often need another.