Heating Vents

On Wednesday morning I woke up early, before India early, and tiptoed around the house, showering, dressing, measuring out coffee, and then sitting with a mug on the floor - on the heating vent beside the large front window, and I watched the sun pull itself up into the sky through the twiggy trees. Just as the snowy ground was blazing pink and gold, India woke up and I poured her some milky coffee in her own miniature mug and we sat together talking about the world changing colour. "I never knew the sky could be so pink."

I have not thought of it for years, until that moment, but on snowy days after school I would often take a pillow, a blanket, a book and curl up on top of the heating vent - like a cat, in the little nook in the family room. I would read until the warm air sent me to sleep, listening to the sound of my mom in the kitchen making supper, my brother and sisters playing, talking on the phone, talking with my mom, my dad coming home and kissing everyone, loosening his tie and pouring a rum and coke in the tall green glass. My mom would wake me for supper and I would pull my warm, slow body from under the blankets to the table, cheeks overheated and shivering at the loss of warm air.
I don't remember my brother ever falling asleep on the vent, maybe because he didn't enjoy reading, but my sisters and my mom and I all took turns doing so, and whenever the cold soul came to the supper table we always eyed her with room temperature superiority, saying, "It's not cold in here. You just fell asleep on the heater."

I miss those winter nights. I've been seeking out heating vents since Wednesday morning, and that feeling of home since the day I was born.