Domestic

I. Ice on the clothesline. The sheets are stiff as boards. I bring them in and lean them against the radiator like guests who arrived frozen and need thawing. II. The boiler makes a sound at six AM that is not quite a knock and not quite a groan — something mechanical remembering it has a job to do. I sympathize. III. Frost on the inside of the window. My daughter draws in it with her finger: a sun, a cat, the letter H which is the only letter she trusts. IV. The soup has been going since morning. Root vegetables, a ham bone, water from the tap that tastes of the copper pipes and something mineral underneath — the taste of this house. V. Dark at four. We close the curtains against it, which changes nothing but feels like doing something. The lamp goes on. The cat claims the warmest chair. Nobody argues with the cat. VI. My husband reads with his glasses on the end of his nose, a habit I found ridiculous for the first year and have found necessary for the next nineteen. VII. Snow predicted but not arrived. The forecast says tonight. My daughter has her boots by the door, ready. She has been ready since October. VIII. The house settles in the cold. Contracting. Joists pulling tight. Sounds from the attic like someone careful is walking up there. It's just the roof disagreeing with the weather. IX. Last thing: I check the thermostat, the doors, the cat. The cat checks me. We come to an understanding. The house ticks into silence. The radiators cool. Outside, it has started to snow and my daughter doesn't know yet. That's for morning.