I write from a room that has no name. Once, it was the dining room, then a playroom, finally an office. For the last few years, though, it was Copper’s room. 

Silly to give a dog a room, but this old house has been most elastic through the years, bursting with children at one point, letting them go, welcoming back when they needed to land here for a while. Now it’s just the two of us, so there was space enough to give our pooch a largish doggie bed here, especially since he was no longer able to jump up on the couch.

So this odd little room with doors on two sides and windows on the third, so impractically sized and now without its primary occupant, awaits its next assignment. Will it be a library, a den, a music room? Perhaps all three. 

But I have another idea. This space with its tall front windows is the first to catch the early light. It sounds like something out of a 19th-century novel, but, at least in my mind, I’ll call it the morning room.