Through a Lens, Darkly

Foggy morning punctuated by  leaves of cinnamon and gold, a morning born of a dream. Wrapped in gauze, the sky is a diffused glimmer over the trees, a promise of something over the hill if you're in the mood to take a walk and wander into the damp.

Not me. I have no desire to leave my bed and my husband indulges me with coffee and biscuits he carries upstairs on the New York Times. We can read through Saturday's and Sunday's editions, and torture The Teen, who has to get out of bed and go to Sunday School. Of course one of us has to drive her...

Stan pulls the short straw and I sink back into the pillows while he tends to prosaic things like teeth brushing. I'm allowed to stay in bed and be A Great Thinker while I supposedly ponder the turn my novel is taking. I am the Artiste this morning, pondering nothing and allowing my brain to be as fuzzy as the view from the window.

Yesterday I was bright and busy. I tended to daughters, sisters, and friends, my car trekking from one side of the county to the other, leaving the house in the bright morning sun and not returning till dark. Today, I have no compunction to leave, except to meet at Mass to remember my father. Today is fit for remembering, for staring out the window as the fog shifts and swirls and  chartreuse leaves appear like gumdrops on branches dark from wet. A fairytale sort of day meant for peeking at, or even, if I gather great strength after lunch, a walk holding hands through the dark woods, collecting stones and bittersweet to memorialize on the mantel. Days for dreaming and moving slow, remembering those now part of the bittersweet earth, the earth that turns over to provide firm footing in a  Grimm world.