It's not yet dawn, but I'm wide awake. Slip from the warm warm bed into the tiny bathroom, brush my teeth, quietly put on my clothes- time yet to let him slumber. Crack the door so a little light falls into the bedroom, pack up the cords that were charging things overnight. Creep downstairs and out into the glittering darkness to start the car running- my hiking shoes crunch through the gravel and the frost, my breath marks my path to and from the cabin. Stars so bright they're like tiny shards of violence in the sky, fierce and alien to my city-bred eyes.
Back up the stairs to kiss him, rouse him, get him moving. Everything in silence so as not to wake the others. Bite of gingerbread is my breakfast, and then we have everything, leaving the key on the table for those still asleep, lock the door behind us and oh so grateful I warmed up the car so there's no more ice to scrape.
Easing down the steep incline, the sharps turns, first gear and infinite patience keeps us on the path until the tires meet asphalt once more, and we can accelerate to the thrilling speed of 45mph, twisting through these mountains that are starting to glow, back-lit with pink.
Down, down, down further and further we descend as the sun comes up and up and up. We break free of the park as he breaks free of the trees, and I watch the water play at being a holy trinity of itself, down in the canyons.
So many kinds of home.
(Smoke on the Water)
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