I water my garden every morning. When I’m finished, I sit on my front steps, tuck my hands between my knees for warmth, and listen. The water makes a crackling noise as it seeps into the concrete at my feet. If the windows of the passing cars are open, which they often are, I can make out the wax and wane of NPR or Coldplay or Taylor Swift, or an ad for a car dealership in the city. Through the open door behind me I hear the kids crunching their cereal in the dining room. They both sing wordless, keening little kid songs between bites. I close my eyes and memorize the sounds.