7:25am. My neighbor across the street, Candy, sits on a green wooden chair on her front porch, playing her banjo. She's wearing a long pink nightgown. (The birds are in full chorus.) Reilly just left for school wearing his black-and-white-checked pants and white chef's jacket with his name embroidered across the chest. Left in his racy little red car. Vroom. The cats are pacing, waiting for that moment when I stand up so they can race down the stairs before me and position themselves for their morning tablespoon of canned food. Not yet, not yet. I can hear the morning traffic on Wilson Avenue, car after car, nearly all headed north, into the city. The sun this morning is barely muted, a thin veil of clouds, not as hot as yesterday. Another day, its details setting themselves out one by one for my observance.