The early morning light hits the floorboards and the rocking chair. Columbine and anemone, freshly picked, cascade from their vase, shocking purple and yellow, and those colors draw me to them, as if peace and balance reside within a small gathering of pretty shapes. Maybe I won’t make anything of my life as one more morning calls me to kitchen and breakfast, the oatmeal boiling on the stove, the girls, happy that maple syrup sweetens their bowls, the not-rushing of ritual. As the sun tells me the morning is getting on, I look out the window at the golden reds of the last leaves, heralding colder days, blankets to be taken out and storm windows to be lowered, and other flowers, the paperwhites on the table, growing, as the girls point out that miracle of stems reaching skyward and those tiny buds showing through. And what if this is all there is? The sun which slants across the house, my presence which slants across my children, as I hear words from my mother pass from me to them. And what if this is all there is? A tidy kitchen, the pull and tug of who I am and who they are, the sun careening every day into and through our lives.