The dog has arranged himself where he can touch both of us. He is in no rush to be walked.
The cuckoo clock turns itself on with eight calls. Of the songs it sings after its announcement of the hour, this melody is the only one I don't know.
From my bed, I can't see the tiny wooden man and woman come out the doors, or the man sawing wood for his tiny basket or the dog watching. The clock is about traditionally Swiss as possible. I'm grateful the clock only sings during the day and not all night long.
We have well over an hour before we have to separate ourselves from the sheets.
On my bed stand is the bowl of tea, he had brought me. Each morning is a surprise brew, all wonderful.
The day ahead should be good.
Gigi should be putting the finishing touches on the hall outside the kitchen. He has exposed the stones placed there some 400 years before and it matches those on our kitchen wall. The house offers the past and present. Originally cattle would have helped warm the air for the residents. It also served as an artist atelier. We try and add happiness to the walls.
We need to take our dirty linen to the people who will wash, dry and iron it -- a true luxury -- mail our ballots to Switzerland for the parliament election, buy veggies for lunch -- my day to cook.
Rick will ready the Nest, my studio bought for retirement but too small for a couple long term. Thus it has become a guest room around the corner from where we have more space.
I will continue to work on my book about remarkable but unrecognized women.
Rick will work on his aviation writing.
I am consumed by happiness as I carpe diem all over the place.
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