On the first night, I watch the snow in the street lamp, the manhole covers uncovered like dark moons, warm.
The next day, I have eggs.
I switch out the afghan on the couch because it’s covered with my dog’s hair, which bothers me all of a sudden.
I turn on lights and turn them off. Do dishes. Write a thank you card.
I pick up books and put them down and pick up other books. I break a binding (but on purpose).
I dust a few things, not too many.
I walk out on my front porch a number of times and stand there for as long as I can in a sweatshirt and check on the snow, just to remember it. It’s still there.
I read the next day. I eat soup. Chicken noodle. Also: tomato.
I put on a sweater.
I don’t have any tea, so I don’t drink tea. I pat my dog, take her for a walk. I drink bourbon, sleep, fold dishtowels.
I light candles and then remember to put them out. I clear out my head and then fill it up again.
I watch a movie I have seen before. And another.
I scrape the burn off toast, right into the sink, and the snow is still there.