If I could be anywhere today, and for the long haul, I'd be in Asheville, waking early in my 1920 something bungalow. I'd carefully remove my husband's arm from about my waist as not to wake him. My plush robe and huge fuzzy slippers maintain my heat in the brisk morning chill as I head down the hall to start the morning fire.
On the way I peek into my sons' room to catch the blissful look of four and six year olds deep in slumber, careful not to hit the spot by their door where the hardwoods creak the worst. Copper jumps down from the foot of the young-one's bed and happily follows me into the kitchen to do his part in getting breakfast started (which generally consists of curling up on the throw in front of a freshly roaring fire). The low fall sun is streaming softly through the windows, broken up by the branches of the giant oak out front, and the morning traffic softly picks up beyond.
From behind me I hear the 'slish-slish' of small footsied feet and hear my favorite words in the entire world: "morning daddy."
