It could be any morning, or any Thursday morning, but really only this one matters, at this very moment, while the morning light streams through the window, and my eyes are not yet ready for the light, but it dances across the room anyway, making plant leaf shadows on the chair, the half- full glass of water, so crystal clear, sparkles in the lurid morning light, and I can imagine how it will feel when it slides down my throat, quenching my thirst from the night. There are crumbs on the table, of course. No one ever bothers to wipe the table, it seems. Crumbs from last night’s bedtime snack, a frenzy of hunger, fatigue, the noise of children delaying bed time by just a few more minutes, a few more minutes, squeezing every last minute from the day. I consider this tableau, this odd, visual delight of light and mess and silence, for a moment, which feels almost suspended in time, and consider taking a picture, to try to hold this moment a little longer, or so that I can return to it when I need a reminder of this peaceful feeling. I almost don’t bother, then I do, at the last moment, before the sun moves just a little further, and then light fades, and then that fleeting, perfect moment is gone now, possibly forever, because I want to hold this feeling, this light, optimistic feeling that everything will go well today. Maybe if I freeze this moment in time, it will last for just a few minutes longer, until someone’s voice jostles the silence, and food appears on the table, sweeping aside those crumbs, nudging away the solitude, and the day is set in motion, and the sun moves, and the light changes—until things stop going well. Until someone wipes the table, the mementos of the night before, and someone drinks the water.