The day is bitterly cold and freezing rain falls slowly and steadily as it has all day. Millions of icicles dangle off of millions of surfaces that sparkle in the muted light of the low clouds. It is my favorite kind of day. Sweet and slow, warm in this place we inhabit. I am holed up in the spare room that is filled with my art supplies.
On this day of ours, while you are reading on the couch beside the fireplace, we are full of rhythm. Life is average and in that—is beautiful. The washing machine hums a unique beat accompanied by a dish washer. The muted hush of dancing white noise against the steady dripping of the rain outside the windows. The fire crackles and reflects the warm and wavering glow on the skin I’ve loved hundreds of times before.