I love waking up early, but today I slept in late, which I love too. I love the clock’s slow blinking from an outage overnight, reminding me that time is relative, not absolute, and love my phone for telling me that it’s 8:42. I love 8:42. I love the warm rug of the bedroom and the kitchen’s cooling tile, the lightness of the empty bag of flour and the heft of one that’s full. I love it when the plum boughs out the window bend with fruit as much as with this snow that fell all night, and reading these condolence cards feels just as good as getting to the end of them. Next, there’s a call about the will, which pleases with its gravity, then after that a longer call that pleases with its farce: what type of pickle’s best for lunch after a funeral. The day goes on like this, trying to weigh which I love most: bouts of commotion, bouts of rest. The holding on, and letting go. And when my kids, eating their pancakes, ask if they will see their grandmother again, I love the little war inside of me between you bet and I don’t know. I love that place, wherever it might be, of peace, the place where nothing perishes or changes. And I love it here: the sticky plates and stupid phone calls, ripe plums sometimes, sometimes snow.