Kathryn Nicolai

It's a skill to drink hot coffee on a porch swing, but I was an old hand.

It was all about getting settled first, then reaching for your cup from the side table, and not trying to swing too vigorously until half the cup was gone.

The bus driver waved at me, and I could see in her face that she was counting down the days as much as the kids were.

The sun began to creep out, and I watched as the shadows the trees threw grew crisper.

The birdsong grew louder as they got their dose of sunlight, and by the time my cup was empty, it seemed like a different day than the one I'd woken up in.

I went inside, letting the screen door bang behind me, and climbed the stairs to my bedroom.

I opened the windows and let the fresh air in.

The bed was rumpled after a good night's sleep, and I turned toward it and pulled back the duvet.

I always appreciate coming back to a maid bed, so most days I at least straighten the blankets, but since it was a Sunday and I had all the time in the world, I could do the job properly.

Then each pillow got shaken, flipped and shaken again, and placed, just so, on the bed.

And the duvet, also plumped and shaken, went on, and I folded back the corner where I would slide in tonight, or maybe this afternoon, for a nap.

It was something my mom always did when she helped me make my bed when I was little.

I wanted to bake something.

In the kitchen, I thumbed through cookbooks and the handwritten cards in my recipe box.

What was I craving?

Oh.

carrot cake.

I smiled with my eyes still closed.

It sometimes seemed silly to make a cake just for me.

It wasn't anyone's birthday or holiday, but then I remembered it was a Sunday, and I hadn't had carrot cake in a month of those.