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The window is open. I hear Dewey breathe. His slack, whiskered upper lip makes a quiet slapping sound like a slow heartbeat. It’s a comfort and it woke me up. John is sleeping on his back, breathing open mouthed. It’s not quite a snore, but a long shush of air. In... Out... I remember Mom’s breathing. At the end that’s all there was.
I hear the snick of car tires on Route 116, a lone driver on their way to the early shift. The moisture in the air has a cold, fresh smell like spring in the Berkshires where I went to college.
I watch the light begin to rise, golden at first, then grey. Through the mist I can see that the red leaves on the ornamental apple tree have grown an inch overnight.