It’s sometime between 3:00 AM and 5:00 AM, and we’re both tossing in bed at the sound of a quite persistent meow. That’s our cat, Lartia. She’s pounced on the bed and is now crawling her way over our bodies, looking for a space to plop down. Even through groggy eyes, it’s clear she wants the spot that’s directly between the two of us. We move slightly and give her the space she’s looking for—she waits patiently for us to hold up the blanket and top sheet so that she can lay down right on the mattress, the way she prefers it. She curls into the quiet like she’s been doing it all her life. We lightly replace the blanket over the three of us and nod back to sleep until she wakes us again for breakfast.
I adopted Lartia almost four years ago, when I lived alone for the first time since moving to New York City back in the spring of 2012. We bonded extremely quickly and it seemed we both needed a loving companion to keep each other company. She never did like being under blankets, always preferred to lay on top and curl into herself for warmth. Since moving in with Rocco, she also tends to prefer sofa cuddles with him during the evening, and curling into my arm during bedtime—the way she’s done it for these last four years.
But this new habit of begging to crawl into the space between us in bed (and also allow us to cover her in the blanket), seems to demarcate a couple things. The mornings are quieter and bit colder as fall begins to truly settle in, and she’s come to see the three of us as a distinct family unit. It’s precious and all too sweet to disturb. Just the way she prefers it. I hope she’ll continue to do it for years to come.
It’s funny how the smallest things signal a shift. Lartia burrowing beneath blankets. A breeze creeping through the windows before sunrise because we haven’t taken the air conditioner out yet. The way we’ve both started talking about “the apartment” like it’s something we’re building, not just living in. For the first few months of living together, we filled the spare room with things that didn’t have a specific ‘home’ yet. We envisioned one day turning it into a proper guest room but with the rapacity of summer slipping through our fingers, it became more of a storage unit than being functional in any capacity.
As the season started to shift, we did too—slipping into nesting mode over the last few weeks. I took everything out of the room so that I could spackle all the walls; the previous tenant having left us numerous holes all over the place. In one Saturday afternoon, I painted the entire room and ceiling. Rocco and I then started reassembling my old apartment furniture to turn it into a proper guest bedroom. Through reorganizing shelves, desks, and side tables, we started giving the apartment shape, rhythm, and intention. Little by little, it’s becoming ours.
In addition to these structural changes around the apartment, we’ve both been pulled toward comfort. The cat’s not the only one seeking warmth lately. While most of the summer we spent our weekends going out to our favorite restaurants and wine bars, seeing movies and friends, and going on trips, the cooler air has brought in new, slower routines and softer light. We’re cooking more dinners at home and dusting off books stacked on our nightstands that we haven’t picked up in a couple months. Fall crept in, and we let it reshape our space, and in some ways, reshape us too.
Turns out, nesting doesn’t just happen in apartments. Sometimes it happens around an old wooden table in Ohio, with a deck of cards and three women who know every story I’ve ever told because they helped write them. Somehow, two years had passed since my last visit home so I didn’t overthink it. I packed a bag, got on a plane, and landed back in a place that always surprises me with how little—and how much—it changes.
It’s always comforting to be sitting at this dinner table, sharing space with my grandmother, great aunt, and mother. The playing cards move around the table like they always have, passed from hand to hand until four sit in the center, face down. Ready for war. This is pinochle: our game, our rhythm.
My grandmother and I are on one team, my mother and aunt Nancy on the other. It’s a playful rivalry that has endured for years. We play with what we’re given. Sometimes, the hand is good. Sometimes, you bluff. Sometimes, you fold. The only constant is the laughter and warmth of being surrounded by those you love most. We called it a tie this time—two games each. But really, I think I won the second I sat down.
Spending time with the women in my family always grounds me. But my dad, in his own quiet way, has been teaching me something too. Not through lectures or life advice, but through the kind of presence that settles in when neither of you are in a rush to leave the room. He’s retired now. We didn’t make any plans, we just sat, watched TV, listened to music. We let the day stretch out without feeling the need to fill it. I didn’t always have this kind of time with my dad. But now that I do, I’m learning how to savor it. While you learn a lot from the hands you’re dealt, sometimes you learn even more from the ones you get to hold onto a little longer.
Back in Brooklyn now, the days are shorter and the light slants in differently. I keep thinking about what we hold, and for how long. What it means to stay close, to return, to offer something of yourself and let it linger. The apartment is quiet in the mornings and I find myself taking a little extra time with everything, as if easing into a rhythm I didn’t realize I’d been missing. The routines have rearranged themselves and the apartment feels warmer even as the cooler air is coming in. The blankets feel thicker. A new wine/beverage fridge we purchased is getting stocked. And somehow, I’m finding small ways to show up, for myself, for others, for what matters.
Lartia is back to waking us, before sunrise. She meows just once, crawls between us, and waits for one of us to lift the blanket. And maybe that’s all I’ve been trying to do too—curl into the quiet, make a space for what matters, and stay there. What I keep returning to is understanding the power in making small moments feel like enough, trying to make each gesture count. As the season changes, bringing in cooler air every day, and urging us to slow down with it, I’m starting to feel entirely at peace with the pockets of love and warmth that surround me and I’m in no rush to leave it.
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