2

I woke up quickly, eyes open wide. It took a few seconds to process as I stared at the ceiling. Confused momentarily at the smooth white expanse above. Didn't the bedroom have swirls on the ceiling?  I glimpsed bookshelves out the corner of my eye turning to look at the floor to ceiling shelves that flanked the living room's fireplace. I must have fallen asleep on the couch; it was rare that this happened but what other explanation was there to waking up downstairs. Very strange. The last thing I remember was being in the kitchen to check, a lightbulb? My head felt a bit fuzzy.
sitting up, I found the clock on the wall, 2:03. What had woken up me up? Since the baby, I slept soundly through the night unlike before when it would take forever to fall asleep and it was a rarity if I slept until morning. Standing up I was instantly dizzy; I braced on the arm of the couch and waited for brilliant green swirls faded. Green? Why was I seeing green, the other times I've been dizzy, my vision just blurred around the edges. This was bright green and it filled my whole vision, until it finally faded. The weirdest part was that the green felt familiar, like I was forgetting something that I was supposed to know.
Shrugging off what was decidedly just a weird night, I headed for bed. Then I remembered why I had been in the kitchen.  The noise downstairs I just had to investigate. I recalled being in the kitchen and then nothing. Until I woke up on the couch. I don't remember what the noise was though. There no way I could have gone to sleep without knowing but then how did I end up asleep on the couch. It seemed unlikely that I had dreamed the noise and subsequent investigation but dreaming after falling asleep on the couch did seem the only explanation. Feeling a bit drained from the lateness and the coldness from the floor seeping through my socks, I gave up thinking in exchange for sleep.  

The blankets warmed up quickly and I closed my eyes in the bliss of a warm and comfortable bed on a cold night. Sleep was quick and dreams that wouldn't be remembered were plenty. Dreams of green.

Sunlight was seeping around the edges of the bedroom curtains when I finally opened my eyes. The clock on the nightstand displayed 8:30am, a bit later than usual; a 6:00am wake up was more normal. But I felt rested and full of energy so I must have needed the extra sleep, probably because of waking up at two in the morning. I rolled out of bed, tied on my favorite robe, fuzzy blue with penguins on it, and headed for the kitchen.  In the kitchen, instead of turning on the lights, I pushed aside the curtains covering the window over the sink as well as the slider door, loving the natural light. Eyes adjusting the the brightness showed the a few inches of snow sparkling in the sunlight. I love the snow. I love to watch it swirling down around me to catch in my hair or watch it falling shimmering and sparkling while sitting warm by a fire. The storm had started the afternoon before and it had left the house feeling very cozy. It was fresh and undisturbed, brand new and pristine, a winter wonderland.
Knowing once outside, I wouldn't want to come back in to eat, I pushed the button the the coffee maker, set to go the night before with a favorite decaf breakfast blend and popped two pieces of bread in the toaster. Then grabbed homemade jam from the fridge, remembering the many days picking berries and the day we had spent canning them into jams. Every weekend in September we had picked berries, raspberries, blackberries, blueberries and strawberries and then froze them until it was time to can. We had found the farm just down the road, only about a mile, and each picking day we were out of the house early. The sun low in the sky, a slight chill still in the air that encouraged closeness as we walked. His arm over my shoulders and mine around his waist, it was idyllic. By the time we reached the fields, baskets in hand, we had both warmed up. We walked down the rows of bushes five feet tall, full of branches heavy and bending with the weight of the berries. We each picked a different side, occasionally switching and exchanging a kiss as we passed. As we walked and picked, we talked. About how delicious the berries were and how much fun it was.  About other things that needed to get done that day. About making it a tradition to go berry picking every year and eventually bring our children too. But that wouldn't happen now that he was gone. Sure I could and would bring this baby to the farm, but it wouldn't be the same without him. Nothing would ever be the same.
The toast popped up startling me back to the present. Placing the toast on a plate then filled my favorite green mug, that fit my hands perfectly, with coffee. I spread jam on the toast and put a little sugar in the coffee then climbed onto one of the stools at the counter to eat. I took a bite of toast then pulled one of the books I was reading from the pile on the counter. I usually left the books in the room I read them in. This particular book, a baby book detailing what happened each month for a baby and the mother, I had been reading the last few mornings while eating breakfast. I was also in the middle of a romance novel about an egyptian princess, that was nice to read in the comfy chair by the fire and a science fiction novel about aliens that was kept in my purse. The way I read books, a few at a time, and 80 in a year, always made sense to me but not to other people. There didn't seem to be a lot of other people who inhaled books. So trying to get someone who maybe read one or two books in a year to understand this passion and love of books, was difficult. I only knew two people who understood my relationship with books. My sister, Finley, who also inhaled books, and Him. My Charlie.

When we first started dating ten years early I was just starting my senior year of high school and he had just graduated a different high school.  At the end of our first date, we had sat holding hands in an empty movie theater when he had leaned over and kissed me gently and completely.  That was it. I was gone, completely in love, we hadn't known each other long but the rightness was with every cell in my body. At the end of our fourth date I had shown him the bedroom I had lived in since I was three. He had walked in and laughed. Unable to afford more than two bookshelves, books were two deep and stacked two high on the shelves as well as any flat surface including the floor. I had stood in the doorway giving him space to take it in or run out the door. I remember holding my breath hoping he wouldn't mind the craziness. I had admitted on our first date that I liked to read, when he asked about my hobbies. Standing in the doorway I wondered if my minimization of my book obsession scare him off. But then he had turned around and was smiling that smile and laughing that laugh that I already loved so much. "You like to read, huh?" He had hugged me then and as I squeezed him back I had felt accepted and loved. We had never looked back.
Finley has the same love of books and understands completely, inhaling books at a similar rate. We had often recommended each other books or exchanged for ones missing from either collection. It was nice to have someone understand and talk about the books with, especially since we had similar preferences. In the last couple years we talked less and less though. Finley had been offered and accepted a great job teaching math at one of the top high schools in the state and thus had less time for reading novels. As happy as I am for Finley to have her dream job, I missed her a lot. And when we had moved here, just over a year ago, we were even farther away from each other. A four hour roundtrip drive was difficult to fit in while working a full time job and grading papers, so I had only seen my sister twice in the last year. Once when we said good bye to Him and the other two months ago to check up on me. I know she worries about me, living alone in such a big house, secluded and pregnant. She had even tried to convince me to stay at her apartment so I wouldn't be alone. I had politely refused, determined to hold on to this house and its memories as long as possible.