Dry land

This morning, I was talking to my cousin in Detroit. She was fixing her daughter French toast while I was fixing my husband an omelet. My 83-year-old house felt as solid as bedrock around me. Our books and bedding, wedding photos and favorite sweaters, old birthday cards and matching tin men hammered out by a Georgia folk artist, the rugs my grandmother gave me and the antique Czech jewelry my mom gave me for my 30th birthday—all were intact. Our families, each other—we were safe and sound.

And all I could think—all I’ve been thinking this week—was, *How lucky we are.*