The floorboards are cold against my bare feet, and goosebumps dance up my arms and spread across my shoulders while I search for the warmth the daytime sun surely isn't going to bring, it being hidden behind thick masses of gray clouds.
I want sun and warm and deep, reviving breaths of spring air in my lungs, and I allow myself to wallow in the disappointment of a gift that isn't mine today.
Nothing miraculous happens outside during the first few morning hours; the sun doesn't break through the clouds and take center stage and the rain continues to drizzle in cold fits to the ground.
But something beautiful emerges amid the clouds and spits of rain; my mind slows down and my body follows it to the recliner chair in the living room where I drape a blanket over my legs.
Two small guests join me, snuggling into the crevices of the chair, burrowing their limbs beneath the blanket, too.
We rock, we talk, we read, and we snuggle;
I breathe in the sweet scent of slow, untie this unexpected gift inspired by the dreariness, and we celebrate the magnificently ordinary that my hands are often too busy to even notice let alone pick up and unwrap.