Every time my phone vibrates the news: school is closed, I roll over with a happy sigh, even though I know it will cost me a day's pay.

Later, I sit in rumpled pajamas that no longer cover my belly, lingering over fresh cranberry almond granola, and an eggy leftover burrito, while the snowy fingers of firs reach toward the still-falling fat flakes.

My father drives me to replace the wiper blade that taunted as a weak broken nub, and then back to the warmth of my parents' house, for warm-from-the-oven brownies and the extended version of Return of the King.

These simple, quiet days will not last forever. I know this. I must breathe them in deeply.