Last morn­ing, the sky was a swirl of ash and dusty pink. The air was still, the breeze was warm, and every­thing felt dif­fer­ent. It was as if we lived in a snow­globe wrapped in tie-dyed tis­sue paper, trav­el­ling on our way to work, watch­ing the ear­ly morn­ing sun­light come up with the wan­ing of the win­ter days. The rays would pierce the clouds like a child pass­ing a flash­light through the thin spots in his blan­ket.

I can only hope for the same today.