Hello, readers.
It’s Monday. A blanket of grey clouds has been tossed over London. I’ve just realized yesterday, the 21st, was the winter solstice. We’re half way out of the dark.*
Later in the week, I’ll be traveling to Kent with EG. There will be 7 children under the age of thirteen. And several children over 30. I don’t know if it will snow. On Boxing Day, we (EG and I) will be in charge of brunch, which I believe is the traditional Boxing Day feast, as no one, most likely, will be quite ready to wake up for breakfast. There will, most like, be eggs and muffins and pancakes and granola and fruit. And that should be good, then.
The year, being almost over, and December being Christmas, and Christmas being ghosts, I find myself thinking about the dead and the past and the living in a way all a bit shimmery, like, perhaps, I’ve lost myself in the blanket of clouds. Or that I’m experiencing weather-related emotions. One of the things I remember is Sarah Lee Butter Pecan Coffee cake. Which we would, most always, have on Christmas morning when I was a kid. One year, much later, I made a coffee cake of my own for Christmas and for to share with mom and sister. For some reason, this memory makes me sad, but not sad, more a sense of sharp joy, felt and gone. A bit like being stabbed. Memories are like that, sometimes. As are yearnings, which are memories of a future that haven’t happened yet.
The tricky thing about yearning is that the joy is imagined and so, the knife, more a probability blade, one that could cut in any one of an infinite ways.
but. well.
Memory and imagination. Ghosts. Joy. Sorrow.
The gift of the season, if you’re lucky, is having someone to unwrap all those feelings with. Maybe on a sofa. Maybe with a cup of cocoa, or hot tea, your feet rubbing together. Something of your past on the television. A Christmas Story. A Grinch. And then, in the morning, all the many children, and the beautiful noise.
Happy Monday, readers.
ttfn.
*I read this just now. Only 4 days in a year last 24 hours. The rest, do not. We live in a model world, readers.
the magnelephant review 