Too Fast

The house is filled with smoke. We wear layers of clothes. It is in the 40s, and it has been a long day by the fire, not feeling quite up to par. the windows radiate cold. There must be dinosaurs on the lawn, pterodactyls in the chimney, serpents in the plumbing, spiders in the sink as far as I feel today, misunderstood. Or Mister Understood. Or just slow and stupid. You can call it anything; it isn’t a very nice mind. In the evening it softens with whisky and wine, the din of many random conversations.

Another day dawns, rain, blustery and cold. Just a few degrees of separation and it becomes nearly useless here. We have a few weeks of separation between now and the sale of our house, from indebtedness to out of debt, but the logistics are challenging when the well is empty. The new season comes on too fast; the former life ends now with vengeful acceleration in addition to audible sighs of relief, along with the resigned knowledge that this has not gone down as well as it might have. In the meantime we have food to eat, health and there is much to be grateful around us. Thanksgiving should be a sober time for this household. Let's just hope we all get to that point in one piece, and then look forward to Christmas and then winter in Providence. We must make it through.