7:30

The clock reads 7:30. He is supposed to be sleeping. Lost in a dream. No idea what it is about. No idea how he would be begin to articulate it to the outside world. Knowing that it would be good. Aware, at the outmost edges of consciousness, that he was snoring. Aware that his wife left the bed some time ago. Replaced herself with their eight year old daughter. Took over her bed. A quiet island at the end of the hall. The one room in the house with a radiator that works the way it’s suppose to. The picture window framing the stark, naked branches of January trees, wavering in the cold wind. Squirrel nests, invisible through summer foliage, clinging to the exposed bark. Soon she will open her eyes. Earlier than she had planned. The snow, still on the ground, will make the room seem brighter. The newly painted walls, a tint slightly more yellow than intended. A little bit to the other side of ideal.