it was a long winter

It wasn't the amount of snow. It was the cold. It was how long it was cold, in Hotlanta. It was so cold this past winter. I just wanted to make soup and popcorn and burrow under old quilts and watch old movies; and look out the kitchen window to see the winter birds forage on all the old seed pods in the garden; take selfies of ourselves now, and compare them to old pictures of us on my dresser and tell ourselves we're not that old yet; buy an enormous (heavy!) cast iron pot and make more and more soup; get up at four in the morning and turn on the lovely lamps and write in my cozy writing place; skype with students sitting at their desks while I sit at my kitchen counter, soup bubbling on the stove; write encouragements on my chalkboard wall so I remember what's good about the isolation of winter; eat all the salads Jim made and all his baked potatoes, too; and wait for spring, spring, glorious faraway spring.

Making home in winter. I loved every quiet minute of it.