As sleep gently recedes and my mind begins to stir, I awaken. With a habitual roll, I reach for my phone on the bedside table, diving into my morning ritual: a half-hour of puzzle-solving courtesy of the New York Times. This quiet challenge is my gentle bridge between the realms of dreams and waking.

Finally leaving the warmth of my bed, I bundle up and step outside with Beaumont, my beloved Sheepadoodle. Our morning saunters have become a sacred time. Under the golden-hued sky, where morning’s first light dances, I stand enveloped in the chilly air. My breath forms delicate mists, merging seamlessly into the serene silence. Breathing deep, I hear my soul whisper, “Miracle. All of it.”

“Yes. It is,” I reply softly, my breath mingling with the winter’s chill.

Returning home, Beau paddles back to the bedroom, seeking the warmth of the bed and my still sleeping husband’s company. Meanwhile, I head to the kitchen, ready to bake breakfast scones. Today holds a different rhythm – I’m going to my brother-in-law’s to sort through my sister’s belongings. I’ve coordinated with a couple of not-for-profits for distribution. Today is about packing and remembering.

As I search for the scone recipe on my phone, I stumble upon a folder labeled “Jackie’s room.” I catch my breath at the poignant reminder. It’s a list of the hospital rooms she stayed in during her final months, a journey that started with a broken femur and wrist last July 24th. There are six entries.

Tears well up against my eyelids. I close my eyes and silently acknowledge this moment of grief, familiar yet always fresh. I allow myself to feel, to let the tears trace their path of memory as they slide down my cheeks.

I turn the oven on and turn into the familiar process of baking scones. The furnace hums a steady beat, I stand at the kitchen island and look out onto the wintery landscape beyond our windows and watch the light creep across the sky. It spills over the snow-clad trees and riverbank. Ice stretches out from the shoreline to the open water where giant, slow-moving chunks of ice drift gracefully along the river’s surface.

I breathe into the profound beauty and tranquility of my morning view.

The oven beeps. The scones are ready to be baked as the day awakens to its own rhythm.

And my soul whispers. “Miracle. All of it.”