It’s 48 degrees outside and 65 in the house. I have nothing I have to do today, no place I have to go. I’m hoping the rain slacks off enough to take a long, brisk walk. It’s been a while since I’ve contemplated the passing landscape with hands tucked up into my sleeves.

Until then, I’m enjoying the quiet morning, the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the cuckoo clock the only sounds I hear. Piles of books and papers on the coffee table, a pot of tea brewing in the kitchen.

Perhaps the reason we appreciate the everyday more as we grow older is because we have learned how uncommon it can be. Days when nothing is expected of us. The comforts of home.