It's that time of year again, the time of year when nights grow long and deep, when darkness steals early across afternoon skies, when people burrow into wardrobes in search of monotones and flannels and ankle-length coats. It's the time when the sun retires early every day, earlier now and earlier tomorrow yet, when scarves are wrapped and mittens are lost and hats ruffle the hair of their owners. Winter, now, is upon us.
Here in Vermont a weakened sun peers tired from a muddled sky, patches of light filtering across the bedroom and to where I now sit, writing this. We're packing up now, readying ourselves for the trip back to the city and surveying the weekend Thanksgiving carnage about us. Beyond the windows, the landscape sits muted in the season's first big snowfall, white and green and quiet in the cold, cold air. Greg is calling to me now; it's time to leave. I look around at the mess of leftovers and laundry, of family and friends, of unwashed dishes and unmade beds, and I have to smile to myself. There is much, so very much to be thankful for.
