A trail of disturbed dew marks where she crossed the meadow, from the house to the grassy hill where she lay, her dress saturating with green hues and the smell of damp earth. Morning sun casts beams through trees, breaking the gloom, warming the field, quieting her whimpers that echoed softly in misty air. She’ll lay here forever, someday, where they exchanged vows and renewed their commitment.

The gray stone drips condensation; Loving father, cherished husband, 1973 - 2018.

On mornings like this, when autumn’s chill brought clouds to caress moss, before the house reverberated with sounds of little feet slapping on wood floors, they’d cuddle under the covers, cheek on his chest, till the sun tore off the foggy blanket. On mornings like this, when cartoons flicked on before the first rooster crowed, the smell of coffee helped to draw them downstairs, out of bed, to start the farm chores. When the mornings were a rush of lunch sacks, backpacks, and running down the long driveway to waiting buses, or to the old Chevy he drove forty-five minutes for machinist’s wages, she’d kiss each hurried cheek as they left, and return to snuggle in bed where his warmth and smell lingered.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Cold mornings in a warm bed, 1997 - 2018.

Off to college, forty-five minutes away. They could have carpooled with their dad, but they preferred to live in the city, where everything was hurried, for minimum wages, for an extra forty-five minutes in bed. That’s where they were, that morning. They were in bed, before the first alarm sounded. Not in the old Chevy. Not in the ditch. For 2 short years, it was just her and him in the house.

Peaceful mornings cuddling, 2016 - 2018.