This morning the thermometer reads 38. We light a fire in the woodstove and drink tea around its musky warmth, watching the light come. Eleven years ago we were driving a twenty-year-old camper across Saskatchewan. We pulled into a gas station in the middle of nowhere and watched the news on a fuzzy TV propped up in the corner. All that day people waved at us, flashed their lights at us, said God Bless You. We had been planning on moving to New York two weeks later. Instead we took our time on the back roads of British Columbia: logging roads and decaying gold mines, redwoods and snaking rivers, skinny dipping and bottles of wine. We were so young. We hadn’t yet given birth or loved someone who’d died. We were just beginning to comprehend losing. This morning the big cherry outside our window sheds its last leaves, the ferns below turn mustard, and our children, still sleepy in this smoky light, look up at us with bright and shining eyes. I pull them to me. Hello there. Hello in there. Oh, dear bright ones, hello.