Big puppy sigh from the other room. Even Beau the gentle giant is resting, finally. Cat is close to me and the fireplace, making herself flat on the bricks. The silence mingles with the occasional click of heat on metal, animals breathing, distant highway noise.
It has been one of those days. Not a bad day, but one of those Saturdays when you think you’ll catch up on all things domestic, chase away the bill collectors, make some shiny memories with the fam, and – on top of all that – create a concise and intriguing summary of NaBloPoMo, when you realize half-way through that you are blessed to simply be breathing. I lit a candle earlier, about a half hour ago, one that smells like Christmas cookies. Not out of sentiment, but simply to cover up the smell of wet sneakers.
Yes, it’s one of those days. I smile and decide to be gentle with myself.
The boys are out in the truck, three generations of Belmontes to retrieve a tree from some corner lot to place in the middle of my breezeway and shed needles to pick up daily over the course of the next month. Last night I said no to the real Christmas tree. This morning, I changed my mind, back to believing in the specialness of the thing.
My father-in-law hung the wreath over the garage this afternoon. I watched from the warmth of the living room as he set up the ladder, walked up rung by rung, and hung it on the nail left there from years past. Blue sky and yet snowflakes appeared, seemingly by magic, in mid-air.
I make noises of complaint, but I have to admit, I love it. Just like every day. Every single day, this month and any other, I can find complaint and I can find love. And I can hold it up for the world to see, and I can say, “Look at this. Look what I found.”
And, my friends, that’s a wrap. I must now ascend to the attic to recover a box marked “Christmas.”