I’ve been in bed since January 31st, worst cold in decades - worst patient ever. I don’t know how Tom puts up with me. Thank you for taking care of me. He’s just delivered the fourteenth bowl of soup to my bedside. He backs away from my snotty body, “It’s what we do.”
The holiday warmth and sparkle starts to drop away mid January, a few days after my birthday which is exactly two weeks after New Year’s Day, and exactly three weeks after Christmas. Now it’s the waiting game. Waiting for the days to get longer. Waiting for the light to take on a fresh quality, but I haven’t seen the sun in almost two weeks. It’s pretty bleak in Cazenovia during winter and its only saving grace is the snow. This year I said over and over again to anyone who complained about snow, “I love every flake that falls.”
From my window I can see the snow receding in patches around the herb garden. I can see dead stalks rising up from a carpet of oregano. They’ll need to be trimmed away come spring. The heart shaped leaves of the black-eyed suzies are hugging the earth. And the skeletons of the smoke bush that I love so much have bursts of naked umbrellas - little black fireworks frozen in time - where their flowers use to be.
Everything will be covered in drifts of snow again soon.