Yellow light reflects from the kitchen window, making the dark beyond the glass panes even darker. Out there frost is curling its way over the blades of grass. It sprinkles flecks of white to match the narrowing strip of snow left by the fence.

The first appearance of green has persuaded a premature spring fever in me. The papers plotting out this year’s garden are tucked away for now, bidding my return on the next bout of fever. One is a scaled map of the irregular garden patch, the others are lists I’ve compiled of vegetables in order of when to plant and what to companion them with. The shopping list includes all the things that would take me out of the maintenance equation. I am the common link to my garden failures.

Water streams over my fingers, its warmth addictive. The house is asleep. The only noise, me. Sleep. Sometimes I hate it. It comes when I finally feel productive. It lulls when I most need to work. It teases me with relaxation when it knows as well as I that my nights are riddled with interruptions. Last night there were four.

Hana is easy.  I hear her coming.  Cadence is sneakier, only discovered when I roll into her unexpected form.  She’s learned she gets to stay longer if I don’t wake up.

As if wakened by my thoughts. Cadence moans, and Hana cries in answer. The dishes are as done as they’ll get tonight.