Sunday morning at 3:20 am we awoke to a 6.1 magnitude earthquake. The house shook like a bartender shakes a martini mixer. Violent and loud. Like a train screaming through the house. Terror. Silence. Blackness. “Are you ok?” “Yeah did you hear me scream?” “No all I could hear was the house shaking.” We cuddled in fear there might be more. Then got enough nerve to get up and survey the damage to make sure the gas wasn’t leaking or the water pipes hadn’t burst. The hallway was littered with pottery shards from an antique plate and statuette that resided on a shelf. Not secured with museum putty. The kitchen was next and it reeked of balsamic vinegar and raspberry salad dressing. Slippery. Glass from the wine glasses left to dry on the counter the evening before. Brooms and paper towels and buckets of glass later we went back to bed to sleep. Fretful and not a deep sleep more of a rest. At 9 our phones started pinging from texts and the landline rang. Friends checking in to make sure we were ok. Others had a much worse scenario than us. We are on bedrock. They sit on slippery dirt. Rumbling trucks and airplanes overhead make me anxious. But I sleep fine. I’m actually exhausted. In the midst of the earthquake we remember we have just moved all her possessions into the garage. Whew. Nothing broken. We are stronger together. This is a good sign.