Thursday, December 15, 2011

Comforts of home

Outside our front window the trees hang on to their last bit of leaves.  They look like sloppy red ink blots on the ends of sketched branches.  I can hear the cars all the way out on on Elk Grove-Florin road because there's nothing but cold air between us.  My feet are snuggled in slippers which are snuggled in E's green afghan.  I'm drinking my coffee with skim milk, which sucks, but it's good coffee.  Hurley dog breathes heavy from his dog bed by the Christmas tree.  Our clock ticks from the kitchen.  I'm letting myself sit and stare at the Christmas tree.

Oh, I have yet to unpack a single thing from Palm Springs.  There are cookies to bake and twenty (or so, who's counting?) presents to buy.  There will be scads of wrapping.  But this morning my life is my own.  No one is expecting me.  Nothing has to happen.  If I wanted to stay right here on my couch cushion, if I wanted to forgo a bra or shoes or hairbrush today, that would be my call.  Few things are less precious than that.  Choice.

All is merry and bright.

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