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2018-01-04 - 7:21 p.m.
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outside, snow is blowing nearly sideways, the windchimes a jangling frenzy. indoors where it is warm, the baby hammers at his pounding bench. this is not lighthearted play. when a ball is bashed free, it bounces down a series of slats with the rib-tickling sound of a cartoon skeleton playing its bones like a xylophone. the baby laughs with pure triumphant joy. here we are, with too many things in our house after the holidays. massive plastic playthings menace us from their packaging. my deceased grandmother's broken jewelry awaits repair.
* * *
annually and inevitably, the walls close in through the first season of ordinary time. last year, the baby ripped my world open so completely and i could not feel it.
* * *
reading: history is our mother.
listening to: strauss, winterlust, polka schnell, op.121.
working on: planning a new kitchen. it's just make-believe right now, but oh how i want it.
in the garden: the wind-sculpted snow in the garden looks like someone carved a miniature model of bryce canyon with foam and a hot knife.
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