Dark Enough

five years ago

I wasn't in a good mood from the start. Not a bad mood, exactly, a little crabby, less generous than I aspire to be, and no good at faking it. I skated by on wordsmithing and filling out forms and a little filing. Dinner was dried tortellini boiled up and covered in leftover sauce, even though I knew it would have made the night so much better to just go pick up Thai food. I was torn between that and just wanting to be home. We left the TV off, and it started to rain, and the wind sounded like rain too, and I couldn't decide what to knit. I had gotten to the part of the book about a character's depression and that seemed too apt no matter how well written it was. There is a night at home tomorrow, then the rest of the week a marathon, two trips to Seattle, and then a weekend that doesn't feel like the bullseye in the center of the target that they sometimes do. I've learned that there might as well be some cleaning that gets done, might as well get to the sleeping part of the day early, and start again tomorrow.

Let's Start Keeping Track Again

There were a lot of things I didn't manage to get done. This is what I think about on Sundays, it's inevitable. Even if the kitchen is pretty clean, and all the dry laundry is folded, and we've hosted thirteen people for Thanksgiving, had lunch out with Tom's parents the next day, gone to The Daffodils CD release party the next night and the show at the Longhorn tonight. Put like that, it doesn't sound like the week was all that lazy. I'm starting to like the house. Not that I didn't always love it, but liking it has more to do with feeling good about the way I deal with the house on a day to day basis. The spare room is starting to vaguely resemble some sort of order, and it is actually possible to clean up my bedroom in about fifteen minutes, generally. 

I still don't know what to get anyone for Christmas, though. Any hints? 

Eventually

Two months is long enough away. Driving home on Farm to Market at night, even with your high beams on, sometimes the speed limit is too fast. Too fast for the coyote flicking through your headlight, the owl exposing the underside of his wings, and worst of all, the skunk ambling his way so much more slowly than you would think possible. The coyote and the owl make it, the skunk, not always. 

Summer left quickly, and all of a sudden, it's frost in the morning and heavy coats, no shoulder season at all. Driving home one night, the wind blew the rain so far sideways that it looked like snow coming down in the headlights. In the garage, a small flood seeps into the boxes of files that were there for shredding, but is gone the next day. You can start to see where the puddles will form in the driveway again. 

The last year has been so long. This time last year I was just getting the new light fixtures in at the house, an ordeal that involved uncertainty and disagreements and one broken shade that I felt terrible about. The fixtures go unnoticed now, peaceful finally. Things in the house still change little by little, not quickly enough for anyone but Emmy, who just wants to know where the water, food and her people are. Beds she can make anywhere. No matter that I spend the night here every night, it still seems part-time somehow but I've learned at least to make my own coffee, and every day I do.