I am so sad when the holidays are over. The trees by the side of the curb break my heart. They were so desirable, so bright, and so treasured. Now they lay there like castoff junk, looking so forlorn. I wish people would be more reverent-maybe leaving a few ornaments on, or covering them with some sort of shroud. I know-they will be recycled and turned to mulch, but I still think that they must feel betrayed somehow.
I miss the holiday excitement and the secret-keeping. The trips to the airport, the homemade treats, the abandonment of diets, and the stockings.
Now we have long, gray, wet and slushy months ahead, with days of staying inside, wandering from window to window, wishing for long walks, spring buds, and gentle wind.
I write my book. It is August at the beginning. I want to jump inside the pages.