I woke at 6:30 without an alarm, which never happens, and lay there for a minute trying to figure out what had pulled me up.
The kettle was already going; Niamh had set it the night before. The second cup of coffee is the one I actually taste — the first one is anaesthetic, the second one is breakfast. Finn was scratching at the door with the deliberation of a dog who has somewhere to be.
The walk to the Lagan goes east-southeast, twelve minutes door to towpath, longer if you stop at the bridge to look at the herons. The light this morning was particularly itself — that's the only way I can describe it — gold without being warm, the kind of light that makes everything specifically what it is and not anything else. I took a photo and then put my phone away.
Got back, made breakfast, sat down to the auth refactor that's been ridiculous for three days. There's a particular flavour of stuckness that comes from staring at code that keeps almost-working — a problem that won't tell you what it is. By eleven I had given up and walked the four minutes to Common Market with a notebook and the previous evening's leftover toast.
Something about writing by hand unsticks me. Not the act of writing, but the act of moving the same problem from screen to paper changes its weight. By the second cappuccino I had the answer, which is almost always how it goes.
The afternoon was quiet. I cleared three small things off the to-do list and walked Finn through Botanic in the late light. The cherry blossoms were going over already, ahead of schedule. The petals on the path looked like a record of where the wind had been.
Mum and Dad came at six. They'd been in town for an ophthalmology appointment for Mum and a music shop visit for Dad — he's been threatening to learn the mandolin since Christmas and we are all watching this with curiosity. Mum brought scones from the Yellow Door. Dad brought a bottle of red he'd been told was alright; it was.
Niamh got home at quarter past, wrecked. She'd had a classroom moment with a six-year-old whose lunchbox contained a single Dairylea triangle and a note from his mum apologising for the shopping list, and she had to retell it twice because the first time she couldn't get to the end without crying. We let her go to the spare room for ten minutes and Dad poured her a glass when she came back down.
Dinner went well. Finn got cheese. I noticed something I hadn't seen before: Dad is a little slower on the stairs now. Just slightly. He paused at the landing for half a second longer than he used to, with his hand on the rail, before continuing up. I didn't say anything. He wouldn't have wanted me to.
After they left, I took Finn out for a last walk. The fog had come in off the Lagan in that way it does in April when the days are warmer than the nights. The streetlights had haloes. I stayed out longer than I needed to.
Got home at quarter to twelve. Wrote this in the kitchen with one lamp on, which is how I do my best writing apparently. Stayed up too late after Sunset Bar.
The day was nothing in particular. Some days are like that. The ones you don't expect to remember are sometimes the ones you do.