I am bad at lazy mornings, especially when hungover. Always popping up to do something, to barrel into the day. I can’t help myself. I love these mornings: making coffee on the single burner with numb fingers, sometimes holding the saucepan to bring back feeling. And Hunter’s rustles from the tent; I never asked her the order she puts things away when she packs up, but I like to imagine it slightly different from mine. Don’t get me wrong, these cold mornings suck in practice, but that’s the power of memory. The moment stays, but the smell of rotting fruit, the toes that took hours to get warm again, never come.