from the pen of icarus blake

The autumn warmth of December ended today along the Front Range of the Rockies, heralding deep winter with gusting winds pressing between layers of wool and fleece.  I woke up cold and tired, longing for the long days of summer when 7:00 is not a dark dawn but a dancing stream of sunlight on the floor.  Up for hours.  Streets are quiet, highway ringing every so often with a last-minute shopper scrambling to put together something — anything — for the Christmas eve church potluck or family gathering.

There’s a pumpkin pie in my oven.  It won’t be eaten until tomorrow, but I’m bringing it home tonight.  At Thanksgiving, I added too much nutmeg.  I hope not this time.  My dog thinks it’s a normal Sunday.  He will continue to think this.  No extra days off for Christmas, tomorrow I’ll tug on both of our Christmas sweaters and pile him in the car for a bright Christmas morning 45 minutes south.  My parents put up a tree.  I do not.  Someday, I’d like to have a large and thriving cactus to decorate with fairy lights and ornaments.  I will never buy an evergreen doomed to the tinder pile for $200.  It’s not my style.  Also I can’t afford it.

I have to wrap gifts.  I want to be good at it, folding paper with the kind of grace my mother and paper-artist pals are blessed with.  I am not.  My scissors catch.  I get frustrated.  I can try to be fancy all I want, but I never seem to choose a gift that’s easy to wrap.  Eventually I just resort to bags.  I’m not good at gifts, anyway.  Can’t I just make a batch of cookies and call it good?

My partner and I fantasize about our own traditions when we move away.  A log on the fire, hot chocolate, candles, holding vigil for the longest night with each other for company.  No pressure for a fancy meal — I’ll make soup.  We can sit around the fire.  We can watch a horror movie.  We can listen for the wild hunt.  Something easy, something that doesn’t leave me dragging by the end.

Praying for the sharp winds of January.