It's hard to dream of coziness when it's sixty degrees out, when you still wake up with allergies and go to sleep with the windows open. Where is my winter?
I will tell you where: lost in a bed, under rumpled covers and tattered copies of old Harry Potter paperbacks. December has clobbered me with two illnesses, for three weeks in a row now. I am forgetting what the holidays look like. How they feel.
Our tree is up, at least. And when we put the baby to bed and turn off all the house lights (I like a dark house at night) the soft white of it sets a mood. I listen to Christmas music at work. Once, last week, I passed a pair of white ice skates out on the curb; a vintage holiday calling card.
I don't want December to fly by like the rest of the months do. I want it slow and meandering, dark and frigid. Long like the song. My girl walks now. Communicates. I want her to remember this month as the one where everything changed for her, where things became possible.
I wish you and yours a season of peace and light and joy.