The first cold morning of the year

There is one morning every year when the air changes its mind. This year it happened on a Tuesday, which felt wrong — mornings like this should only be allowed on weekends, when there's nowhere to be and no reason to rush the process of realizing summer is actually, finally, over.

I made coffee twice. The first cup went cold on the windowsill while I stood there in last year's cardigan trying to remember where I'd put my good socks — the wool ones, the pair with the hole starting at the left heel that I keep meaning to darn and never do. The second cup I actually drank, sitting on the front step with my knees pulled up, watching my breath do something it hadn't done in months.

I wore two pairs of socks. I don't know why two felt necessary rather than just thicker ones, but it did, and once I'd decided that the whole day arranged itself around the same logic — more of everything, slower about everything. Two candles instead of the overhead light. A second blanket on the bed before I'd even needed the first one yet.

By the time the sun was properly up, the cold had backed off to something more reasonable, the kind you forget about once you're moving. But for that one hour on the step, sock-heavy and slightly ridiculous, I let the whole day be slow on purpose — the first of many, if the season keeps its promises.