Warmth

I write this during the early-morning hour of a blizzard.  As you can see, Finn is making the most of it, cozy beneath the how-can-they-make-material-so-soft warmth of my fleece blanket.  What you can't see is that my own form is also comfy under said comforter.   

Earlier--just after the call from the district that I should stay in bed (apparently, even people who only very occasionally collect wrinkled dollar bills at school sporting events still qualify for The Call) --Finn thought that perhaps I'd abandon my book and head downstairs, so he scurried off the bed to begin his doggy calisthenics on the carpet in the other room.  That's when I reached my hand over to the spot he'd just abandoned and relished the warmth of his imprint. 

Good lord, I love that sensation...the thermal memory of someone I love who now is somewhere else.  Three mornings each week, weekend warrior Mark abandons me before 5 a.m., readying himself to do things for airplanes that I still don't quite understand.  Often, I let my arm drape over his pillow, his warmth still pooling there for me.  

I love that all of my friends and all of their students also got the early-morning call to stay in bed and savor the hard-earned warmth of skin-on-sheet. 

And when I finally swap pjs for something only slightly more public-appropriate, donning coat and boots for a walk around the block,  I'm certain I'll find that warmth again, the imprints of those I love, showing up in the least-expected places and ways.  In the brilliant red flash of a male cardinal darting for cover.  In the uplifted swirl of snow, the resilient bend of little bluestem, the crunch of snow under tires.

The warm imprints of our beloved are everywhere, mixed up in and moving through this ridiculous life, whispering their breathy incantations, reminders that we most certainly aren't alone, even in the storm.