This morning I rise at 6:30 with Athena’s request (a coughing sound as if she’s trying to find her voice) to get outside and pee. She’s been sleeping in the same room as the granddaughters and now she’s standing next to the front door. I follow her outside. Look out as the day begins.

The sky is dark. A few birds call out.

Back inside, Sloane, 8 and Theia, 7, announce they are still tired and they’ll go back to bed.

In the kitchen, I prepare Athena’s breakfast and offer it up. She eats with gusto. I turn on the countertop griddle. I pour 1.5 cups of buttermilk into the flour/baking soda/salt/sugar ingredients I mixed up 12 hours earlier.

I’ve made hundreds of pancakes in my life. I’ve awakened from sleep thousands of times. I could be on autopilot, really, the way the routine is established.

I notice the sky is lightening. I step outside. The air is fresh. Just a slight chill. Sun touches yellow leaves. The season is turning. I am here.

Sloane and Theia move around me in the kitchen. Our patterns intersect with each other. We hug good morning. We talk about the day. I notice their eyes, the sound of their voices rising and falling like little songs, the aliveness of them. I notice a solid feeling inside me: a calm, a settledness.

I am not on autopilot.