I remember waking up for school in a cold house in the winter, under the warm covers, cold nose poking out. Make it to the kitchen. Just to the kitchen, not far. Brrrr. Cold air. Quick, out of the covers, run, into the hall, the house is dark, no lights. Small sliver of light coming from the kitchen. Rush down the hall, crack the door. Just a little. As small as possible. Slip in without letting the warm leave. Oven door is open, oven on, warming the kitchen. Dad is already up, for hours. Hours of writing I think. Coffee, I smell coffee. Dad is at the table. He looks up, smiles. I’m at the table. He is making me breakfast. NPR talks. Nina Totenberg, Supreme Court, Carl Castle, the economy. We are talking. Sleep falls away. I bath in the warm glow of the kitchen. I am surrounded by love.  I am safe. 

This was a daily routine with my dad and I before swim practice. It was nothing remarkable — just a regular morning. Yet I can recall the exact feeling like it was yesterday. Today when I hear NPR on in the background, or I catch the smell of fresh coffee at the right time, I have this overwhelming feeling of being safe — of being in the warm kitchen with dad. I remember feeling like he could protect me from anything — that he could fix everything.

Some days more than others, I miss that feeling.