This stretch between Christmas and New Year’s is an odd time.
“I love that you have this,” T said a few months ago. “This spot at the kitchen table where you work.”
I’m in the dentist’s office with soft rock coming from the ceiling above me. I have tried to choose a chair farthest from the noise.
Over the weekend, we traveled to Canada and I got locked in a bathroom.
This morning, B and I went to a motocross race to watch people fly around a dusty track holding onto the handlebars of obnoxiously loud death machines while people cheered in the hot sun. (This picture is of him doing a sport that does not require as much protective gear. In the dark.)
A person who loves the quiet has enjoyed these loud sounds this holiday weekend.
Sunday felt like one of those days when I’m able to leave home for a week or part of a week and within a few hours of untethering myself from my beloveds, my brain opens up in a way I always forget is possible.
A week ago, we returned from a vacation in Italy. On Sunday, L says, “I think it’s time we buried the dead things in the freezer.”
I know. I’m not supposed to love this view.
My poor porch. It is a victim of a frazzled and distracted life.