(no subject)
I started thinking about Christmas today. Early, I know.
There's something profoundly healing about curling up on the loveseat or armchair in the family room of the house I grew up in, close to midnight, the warm, crackling fireplace at my back and the tree all decorated and lit up in front of me. Every once in a while the wood pops in the hearth, and I know it smells like fireplace outside because of the smoke that drifts up the chimney, but in the house it smells like pine tree and the baking I've been doing all day. This year I'm building the pyramids of Giza and the sphinx out of gingerbread (it was Hogwarts castle last time, and a pirate ship the year before that), and it's not finished yet but it will be before Christmas Eve, and then it will sit on the counter under the Advent calendar until New Years Eve when we'll smash it to bits.
Christmas music plays softly, the only light in the house comes from the tree and the fireplace, and I can see the star-shaped lantern hanging in the gazebo out the back windows. It swings in the West wind off the lake - maybe it will snow during the night. The cats are sleeping. Goose is curled up in a ball on the couch, slender and sleek, his long tail tucked close. Milo is sprawled on the carpet on his back, his furry feet in the air, showing off the brown patch on his white belly. Everyone else has gone to bed. The stockings are hanging above the fireplace - Harley's is missing this year, but Milo's is there for the first time. There is a mug of peppermint hot chocolate, and every time I raise it to my lips to sip I can smell the gingerbread scent that no longer washes off my hands.
I forget that time can be measured. I wonder where the upside down Santa and the green dinosaur ornaments are hidden on the tree. Out of all the cousins, Joey will find them first on Christmas Day. He always does. Eventually the music will come to an end and the fire will burn down to glowing coals and the mug will sit, empty, on the coffee table. Goose will stretch, and sigh, and move his paws over his face before sinking back into cat dreams. The lighthouse across the lake blinks white, green, white, green. The house settles and grows cooler - the heater has long since lowered for the night. I might fall asleep here, lay my head on the armrest and pull my mother's Hudson's Bay blanket up to my nose like a child again.
There's something profoundly healing about curling up on the loveseat or armchair in the family room of the house I grew up in, close to midnight, the warm, crackling fireplace at my back and the tree all decorated and lit up in front of me. Every once in a while the wood pops in the hearth, and I know it smells like fireplace outside because of the smoke that drifts up the chimney, but in the house it smells like pine tree and the baking I've been doing all day. This year I'm building the pyramids of Giza and the sphinx out of gingerbread (it was Hogwarts castle last time, and a pirate ship the year before that), and it's not finished yet but it will be before Christmas Eve, and then it will sit on the counter under the Advent calendar until New Years Eve when we'll smash it to bits.
Christmas music plays softly, the only light in the house comes from the tree and the fireplace, and I can see the star-shaped lantern hanging in the gazebo out the back windows. It swings in the West wind off the lake - maybe it will snow during the night. The cats are sleeping. Goose is curled up in a ball on the couch, slender and sleek, his long tail tucked close. Milo is sprawled on the carpet on his back, his furry feet in the air, showing off the brown patch on his white belly. Everyone else has gone to bed. The stockings are hanging above the fireplace - Harley's is missing this year, but Milo's is there for the first time. There is a mug of peppermint hot chocolate, and every time I raise it to my lips to sip I can smell the gingerbread scent that no longer washes off my hands.
I forget that time can be measured. I wonder where the upside down Santa and the green dinosaur ornaments are hidden on the tree. Out of all the cousins, Joey will find them first on Christmas Day. He always does. Eventually the music will come to an end and the fire will burn down to glowing coals and the mug will sit, empty, on the coffee table. Goose will stretch, and sigh, and move his paws over his face before sinking back into cat dreams. The lighthouse across the lake blinks white, green, white, green. The house settles and grows cooler - the heater has long since lowered for the night. I might fall asleep here, lay my head on the armrest and pull my mother's Hudson's Bay blanket up to my nose like a child again.