Warmth

Snow, or maybe sleet, or even rain, falls outside the window. It is difficult to make out through the plastic covered window. The light from the corner yellows the room. The comfort of my bed fades as time closes in for me to leave. Hot sauce adds no soothing warmth to my omelet, but the bowl brushed aside next to me signals home like sitting in front of the fireplace, lying next to my dog, warmed by slippers and a hood that cap the ends of my body do. But the bowl is cold. The warmth is old.