the day after the day after christmas.
morning rain, gray skies.
this table by the front door.
waiting quietly for the new year to arrive, the old year to slip out the back, jack.
i was awake early enough to chase the cold morning fog - it moved quickly and was soon rain and i scurried back into the house, slipsliding inside the door, barely catching myself before falling. the breeze-sometimes-wind and laundry kept me inside until mid-afternoon; i should clean, i told myself, should vacuum, should put away these candles, but mostly i read, and in the end decided i would keep them out until the new year tapped on the windows and said hello. the house is ready and waiting.
i walked the dark sidewalks last night, zigzagging, following the christmas lights, letting them lead me where they would. it was cold, the morning breeze by then a true nighttime wind, and all the lights looked like magic from far away, less so up close, but calling me nonetheless. the cold stopped my thoughts and i just walked. walking late, the sounds draw you - the slamming of car doors, the hooting of owls, a knock on a door, voices drifting as the door opens, gone when it closes. the scruffling of leaves as your boots scooch through them, the fragile skittering sound they make when the wind grabs them and sends them flying. a siren in the distance.
i listened without thinking, hands warm in my pockets, the milky sky overhead.
the day after christmas, katie and i in the jeep, backtracking behind businesses to avoid the traffic. a young deer crossed the city street in front of us, another doe waiting on the other side. katie wished them luck on their journey.