It’s the Monday before Thanksgiving. She has let the world pause before she dives into all of the work that needs to get done before the holiday.  She’s standing in the bedroom doorway, her shoulder pressed into the door frame, the sun filtering in through the lace curtains.  Cinnamon rolls are in the oven, the clock by the bed is the loudest sound in the room as its stage whispers its ticks.  Steam from her over sugared coffee swirls around her eyes and smells and sensations that she can’t associate with anything other than home wash over her.  It is in these moments she can feel her body catching up with the universe.