She walked out of the gray woods holding this pot. She found wild snow drops under a shaggy mat of brown. She freed them from leaf bones and dried tangles, then plopped them, dirt and all, into discarded plastic. Now the pot sits on our front steps and makes Mama happy.
He tried the yarn’s length around my neck after each trim, over and over again. I put Fray Check on the end of the yarn to keep it from unraveling and told him I wasn’t peeking. His little man hands gently crowned me with his most precious possessions, strung with care.
I sit down at the table with a perfect cup of coffee: a preheated mug filled three-quarters of the way with Freedom of Espresso’s organic blend, finished off with really long pours of both white sugar and heavy cream. As I take my first, second, and third sips of the morning, I can feel my mood lift from conscious to maniacally chipper. High on caffeine and eager for conversation, I look over at my seven year-old as she works on her spelling. ...
We’ve been staying inside during this frigid week. Warming by the fire, playing with Legos, watching shows, deep conversations, preparing meals, drilling holes…feeling quiet and buried. Snuggling in.
We had a lovely Saturday night date during a big snowstorm: sandwiches at The Blue Tusk, followed by a $5 movie at The Palace Theater. I wish I had known that The Palace doesn’t actually heat the theater in winter. I watched most of the movie sitting sideways in my seat, my stockinged feet in John’s hands and the rest of me buried deep inside my down jacket.
The Christmas cookie project took us from daylight to darkness. But we could feel those extra few post-solstice moments of light.
I spent our snowy winter solstice indoors, watching the snow fall out of the corner of my eye as I crafted last-minute gifts. All under the watchful eye of one feverish director, that is.
the view from our front window the view from the kitchen hallway 8:32 am
It’s very hard to write eloquently about a subject that’s already been written into the ground. A death in the family tears you off of your feet and out of the everyday, unwilling, stunned into silence, glancing over your shoulder at what should have been as you begin walking the rut of the mourner. Gather at Mom’s house, wash dishes, murmur reassurances of eternal life through Jesus that land on unwilling ears. Bake the casserole, wipe off the table, wince as you overhear every unfeeling cliché being directed at the widower. And as you work you pine away for the normal, not just for yourself but for the whole family. You’d rather Sunday never happened. If only we could be grocery shopping, solving math problems at the school table, putting in the next load of laundry. At this time of year we should be at Mom’s house to decorate Christmas cookies. Instead we keep busy with glasses and hot plates and the napkin pile as Mom prepares to bury her youngest child. ...