It’s snowing swirly flurries in the streetlamps. Everywhere else it’s just wet. Slick and shiny and slippery wet, the snow and the rain dance together down the windowpanes. They slide to the side. They whirl to the ground, a mad aerobic fling. And the streetlights shine, they shine in the snow. The wind’s been blowing all day, a blustering and a muffled thump-thump-thump against the door. You can’t get in, wind! We’ll have no storm in here.
Last days of vacation should always be spent like this: sleeping in, waking slowly. A long hot shower, a decent book. Seeing how nicely Aragorn cleans up at the end. Quiet, with some music. Clean and sweet-smelling children after a bath, and Toy Story 2. The promise of a new year, which starts on a good note, which blows in with the wind.
Karin: Mama, what’s that called in English? (referring to something mentioned earlier in Swedish)
Me: I don’t know.
Karin: *shocked* Don’t you know all the English words??
The greenery has come down and been laid on the flower bed under the kitchen window, needles stiff and gray-green. A new VCR gleams on the shelf because the old one, after 10 years, clenched its teeth on Rudolph and refused to let go. Decorations are gathered together, and even without the creche and the tree, the long table is covered. It’s such a fleeting thing afterwards, Christmas is. Such frenzy and preparation leading up to staccato bursts of days that leave a scent of gingerbread, a plume of incense, and disappear.
Another year over and done. They’re moving faster, the years. They used to go so slow. Now I want to grab each one, tie it down, anchor it somehow. It’s not enough to record them on paper, in photos, in the wrapping paper of birthday presents. The children are growing, up and away. Each day whirls away like the snow. Suddenly, I’m cold and before I know it, Christmas will be here again. There’s no time for melancholy.
Glittery Sparkling Confetti-thrown Birthday Wishes to tofarawayplaces!