I go downstairs, and I sit in the quiet, dark house, all the shapes of the furniture still around me, the shadows dense, almost tangible.
The sun isn't up yet.
The moon has already set.
Everyone is asleep and the house is somnolent itself, all that dreaming somehow casting a spell on the world around me.
I sit there, looking at the ceiling where the reflections of streetlights outside make long streamers of faint light stretching from the night, outside, towards the bedrooms where everyone lies tucked under blankets, still. It is almost as if this is a harbinger of the day that will come (but is not yet here.)
It is that moment of stillness, the pause before the day, that reminds me how thankful I am for the tumult of life.