The moon slides down into dizzy vision, a bright dime in deepening blue.
Along the street of home, straggling snow in sleepy silence.
Rising chimney smoke is breezeless, straight and true.
I return from the shopping mall, having invented unneeded things to buy.
The right things seem to elude me, always. Ahhh, no matter, I think.
After all, it is the thought that counts, eh? Finding the opportune moment to sneak away, braving the Christmas traffic, the idiotic parking contests, the miles between washrooms. And then, overpaying for some unique item you couldn’t find anywhere else. After all, the rents in these places are sky-high. You gotta expect that.
Gaining entry to my empty house, and laden with parcels, I nearly fall down fourteen stairs as the stupid cat tries to trip me in a bid for attention. Apparently, I forgot his food this morning. As I set everything down haphazardly, it strikes me that I am bringing coals to Newcastle. All around me are boxes from our recent move, as yet unpacked, accumulated during 42 years of marriage. Some, I am sure, contain items unique at one time, that have never seen the light of day. Discouraging, to say the least.
These are the things we become inured to in the life domestic. Laugh if you like, at this
“First world problem”, but there comes a breaking point. I suspect it will be after I carry it all back up the fourteen stairs, in the spring, put it out for a “garage sale”, and then bring it back in again when no one wants it.