The morning sun moves across the living room while my children and husband sleep in darker corners of the house. It is quite nearly silent but for a small bird's distant, persistent chirping. I sit in my chair, feeling the granite weight of the week gone by, the sticky grip of bad dreams and tight schedules. I listen for my breath, that tidal current where my body and this room meet each other in exchange, and I think of things that are waiting for me: the leaves to sweep from the warped boards of the deck, the dusty purple grapes darkening on the vine to pick and juice, the piles of cardboard to flatten and carry to the car. I will wipe clean the white bowl of the sink. Swab clear the glass of the windows and mirrors. I will sweep the floor’s honeyed stripes and kneel to gather gently the tumbleweed of hair and fur, the cracker crumbs and river sand onto the sloping dustpan. I'll listen to the news while I cut vegetables and make piles of soft brown rice, then we'll sit together in the evening to eat. The world may say that my plans are small. Even you may think that in times like these, there is so much more to be done than housework and on another day, I would agree with you. But today is Sunday and it is sunny and I am haunted by autumn's lessons. The light slices gold slashes across the carpet and reminds me of what I know: that at some time all of this will be gone or they will be gone or I will gone and that no matter how the rush of days lets me forget, there is no other way. This is not keeping house. This is caring for things that will be either taken or given away and this morning I can think of nothing else. I want to touch everything I know I will lose.