notes on a quiet life

It’s been snowing lately. It seems that winter has substituted emphasis for punctuality. The houses are frosted with white, tree branches are coated with sugar, and our cars are glazed with sleet.

Husband leaves for work about five minutes before I do each morning, and he starts my car so it can begin to defrost. When I come out, the chill is gone and I can see out the windscreen. I feel loved.

At night we come home and shut the door against the world. I cook sometimes. At others we hear up leftovers or make grilled cheese sandwiches. Husband sits me on the couch, hands me my knitting, and goes in the other room to wash dishes. I feel loved.

Later, curled under feather comforters and listening to the wind outside, we keep thinking of bits to share from the day, going back and forth until one of us drowses off. I’m lying flat on my back, he’s on his stomach, with his arm draped across me. I listen to the steady rhythm of his breathing, and smile silently into the dark when he twitches in his sleep.

I feel loved.

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~ by wildeyedwonder on January 23, 2007.

 
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