My daughter is still asleep
after stealing the sheets
all night. I finally let her
have them all and I’ve risen
to watch the snow not fall
outside the window.
It is gray, and from where
I sit on the floor, I’m not sure
if it’s gray because it’s too early
for sun or because it’s cloudy.
I don’t want to move
or make a sound—
would rather not wake
my daughter. They are rare,
these moments alone.
A truck rattles by outside.
I notice I am noticing the truck.
That’s a lot of noticing
for something so insignificant,
I think to myself,
then I’m startled by a laugh,
a full belly laugh, in the bed
beside me. My daughter, dreaming,
can’t stop giggling.
God, I think, it’s great
to have a body,
and on this cold, gray morning,
gratitude finds me and
body slams me
with my wild luck,
pins me with joy
to be this very woman
on the floor in room 224
not at all alone.