I walk across the kitchen and stare at the kettle with its plume of steam.  The lovely infuser which Jenny Rosen gave me for Christmas sits on the marble slab.  I fill it with Earl Grey and pour hot water.

At the white table in the breakfast nook, I straddle a wooden stool.  Some familiar voice spews from the radio and I wince.  I click the nob.  I can’t take NPR today.  I don’t care about the election.  News of deaths sends shudders through my body.

I canceled my newspaper subscription because the out-sourced customer service would not help me update my billing information when my debit card got hacked.  I don’t miss it.  My recycle box no longer overflows and my hands remain clean.  But this leaves the radio as my only news source.  On certain days, when my hips hurt and my head throbs, I go without.

My gluten-free granola shimmers in its bowl of almond milk.  The house falls still.  I raise the cup to my lips and sip the hot, bitter liquid with its tinge of bergamot.   I hear the dog barking on the back porch but I make no move to re-admit her to the house.  The cup clicks as I set it on the table and drop my hands to my lap.  I hold my body still.  I wait.

It’s the fourteenth day of the twenty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.