There was another feeling now. A feeling of cooking something full of warmth that gently rises on the hour in a porcelain oven. Of pausing in mid-dish-dry, dishrag draped absentmindedly over an arm. Of staring out the window at elms and oaks and wispy Eastern Hemlocks. Theresa felt the same feeling a decade ago in college while walking down a shady sidewalk to one of her English classes. It was one of the rare moments of calm, clarity, and sobriety she had the whole semester, and she held onto it like a brass ring on a merry go round. It lasted an hour, and she felt her feet lighten. Now she had felt the peaceful feeling for almost a month, and her knuckles were turning white, that’s how hard she was holding onto it this time.