A tiny foot is wedged into the bottom of my ribcage, prompting me to surrender to third-trimester insomnia and rise with the spring sun. I make coffee, pulling down the same two mugs I always do for my husband and myself. It is a daily rhythm serving as an anchor in these strange times where one day bleeds into the next.
If you ever come to our home, you'll probably be greeted with a cup of tea no matter the season. Admittedly, not by me—I'm still learning the art of tea-making—but by my husband. And don't expect the instant tea-bag-dunked-in-hot-water kind.
The low heat rises from the radiator and into the palms of my hands flat against the grate. Rubbing the sleep from eyes, I return my glasses back on the bridge of my nose and take an extra minute to look out the window.