text: On Tuesday, I wake up early. Before birds, before breakfast, before Tom and Cheryl begin to stir. It’s been this way for what seems like centuries, and by this point I’m quite certain it’ll be this way for the next few, at least. Once I’m out of bed, emerging spirited from my corner between the futon and the piano, I’m off on my rounds. The coffee table, the TV stand, the modest dining room table set for two. Check, check, check again. Two frail bookshelves flank the TV. Once a hub for hungry eyes searching for an escape, the shelves hold equal parts book and dust. But that was memories ago. Woof. The soft rank of dying books, the subtle hum of sleep upstairs. Signs of morning, worn and familiar. Guided by habit, I take to the stairs with vigor. As has become customary, my eager eyes fly past my feet, a crucial paw-placement is missed, and I’m barreling head-over-paws-over-tail into stair seven, eight. I recover, unfazed, and trounce the remaining stairs, storming the hallway. At the end of the hall, the sleeping couple’s door appears cracked, signaling opportunity. In a moment, I torpedo down the carpeted alley, barge through the door and, in another moment, heave my fifty pounds into the air. The still, stocky frame of Tom is my target. I hit. “Christ, Jesse,” Tom says. Cheryl stirs, only temporarily affected. I recognize the tone--disoriented and condemning, yet unable to bury the warmth underneath. Most morning rousings end in a variation of the same. Sitting up, Tom gazes out the cold window. Beyond, a milky haze has settled on the orchard. A sigh escapes. Turning his body out of bed, Tom gropes for a jacket and slides into insulated boots. I follow Tom downstairs. “Goddam warped door, worse than the windows,” Tom grunts, not yet past his sudden awakening. “Windows can’t keep out the goddam draft, door can’t keep out the goddam dog,” he mutters. I can’t imagine why he’s still on the subject. Tom opens the back door, and I run off. Urgent business to attend to. Tom lowers himself in his rocker, takes his pipe out, packs it. From my far-out vantage point between the apple trees, leafless and snow-packed, I can smell the earthy wisps of tobacco better than I can see them. Business attended to, I meander back. The sounds and scents of winter were once tantalizing, but they have grown stale with time. Tom is the gravitational center of my universe. These days, I find that pull to be stronger than all others. “Oh, Jesse,” Tom says, indiscriminately scanning the grove. “These seasons. They’re all the same, the more I think about it. Just a big loop.” For every year I’ve spent here, Tom’s spent seven. He knows. Tom sighs, deeper this time. I circle twice and lay to his left. As yesterday, as the day before. And with every year, we grow more tired of the seemingly endless nature of it all. It’s a shit hole, as Tom says, it’s dying. And, from all accounts, we’re not. In a wasteland such as this, it’s hard not to grow entirely apathetic. That’s the funny thing: we’re not--entirely--apathetic. We’ve still got each other. It’s warm, familiar, and it's ours. Entirely enough.