There was frost on the car windows when I woke up. It splayed out, like fingers or abstract art. My dad used to tell me that Jack Frost painted the icy designs. I got back under my heavy comforter, pulling it up to my chin and latching my arm around my husband’s bicep, anchoring myself to him, to warmth and relaxation. He slept on his back, breathing softly. My face was cold where the bedroom air touched it, and I savored the contrast. It’s mornings like these that I wish time would stand still, nothing would change, and we could be happy and complete in this bed forever.