Sun comes up on the Pacific and it’s still just February cool enough to employ a blanket before daylight.  My mother’s handmade cream-colored afghan rests on my shoulders while the HB# 2 pencil moves across journal paper trying to keep time with the Shamas.

A Lonely Planet guide to Walking in Italy rests on the ottoman, nearby.
Rooster crows.
The bullfrogs, quiet, resting their expanding throats in morning.
Gecko chirps in this precise moment.

Jeb is still asleep in the blue of his velour blanket.  His long thin legs begin to reach toes to touch the end of the bed.

Soon I will be snapping Tupperware containers full of sourdough pretzels and apple slices with lemon.  Swirling in sandalwood incense and sipping french roast with cream and island honey.

Rising sunshine will spread over coco palms and banana leaves while my hands immerse in soapy water to scrub last night’s dishes.

These are the details to stretch into.  These simple things I know I will forget if not recorded.

The scent of Jeb’s seven year old neck.  The cold of his lunch bag’s frozen ice pack in my hands.

These building blocks create the day.  Stitches, one by one.  The threads that form the blanket.

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