Cabin Days

Sunnyside is rain days by the fire, fresh buttered sourdough with my aunt's salmonberry jelly, spreading devil's club salve on my growing belly when I can feel the skin starting to stretch.

It mostly rains. It's easier to remember the two whole days without rain (one sunny!)— the rain days blur together: feeding the wood stove, boiling beans, foraging beach parsley and spruce tips in the drizzle. We read. I paint.

The squirrels ate a hole through the mattress in the cabin where I usually sleep, so Robert and I are staying in the loft of the main cabin. It's warm from the fire, spacious enough, though you can hear the rustle of blankets or sounds of dishes from down below.

Our apartment in London is a loft, which I had thought fairly inconvenient when pregnancy prompted peeing in the night: down the stairs, don't knock over his bike, through the kitchen. But here, it's a full obstacle course. On the night of the full moon, I wake in darkness so complete that my muzzy brain has to check proprioception that my eyes are open. Hand up to touch the rafter so I don't concuss, then crawl to the hole in the floor. Climb down the footholds embedded in the wall above the couch, touch ground, pull on coat and boots to go outside.

It's a good thing I've been feeling so much better. I'm myself most of the time, just quicker to tire.