I’m thinking -- here we are, at the inception of winter, and there are short days and cold nights and there is nothing inspiring about either. And yet, never mind, we surge forward anyway, as if there’s great enjoyment in skidding and sliding and freezing and turning on the lights at 3:30 in the afternoon.
We are a weird lot.
Sometime in mid afternoon, I pause to drink coffee with Ed (do not infer from this that Ed drinks coffee – he does not; beguilingly, he sleeps through most of our encounter). But it is a fleeting (if warm and pleasant) thing. After, I go on to finish all shopping that has to be done in anticipation of Thursday and I go home to complete The Promise.
The Promise is no great wonder – only a childhood cake (mind you, not my childhood; no parent baked anything ever during my childhood) that has been on the list of “can you please bake this again” cakes that my daughters present me with when they come for a visit.
I’m not sure when we are supposed to eat this (there are so many other items that must make an appearance), at the same time that I am sure that it will be eaten. Christmas time is like that: some things you can count on, others – you must wait and see.
[Written while listening to the strains of Clare College: the Holly and the Ivy, our favorite holiday CD.]