But for the moment he is still in bed, clanking his coffee cup against his saucer. Outside, deep fog presses against windows and roofs, and the distant foghorns keep up a regular baying. From single digits over Christmas, the temperature has climbed into the 40s, and the air smells like March--salt breeze and wet soil.
Today will be my first day alone for more than a week, and mostly I'll be catching up on housework and emails and phone calls and my exercise regimen, and maybe turning my thoughts toward my upcoming zoom class, maybe toward a poem draft. It was nice to have a mostly lazy weekend, if you can call six loads of laundry lazy, but it will be good to rediscover my briskness and my concentration and to wean myself from the ridiculous foods of Christmas. Last night I stir-fried vegetables and seared tuna; tonight I'll make a wild mushroom and farro soup. I've got the week's menu planned: chicken and seafood and tofu and split peas and many, many vegetables. It's hard to stay brisk on a butter, chocolate, and ham diet.
This gap between Christmas and New Year's is always an odd desert: holiday and not-holiday, especially given that T only gets Wednesday off this week. Maybe a friend will stop by for tea or a walk. Maybe I'll spend all of the days alone. I'd like to think I'll be writing this week. But I might not; I might just wander and read and hum and concoct slow-cooking winter meals.
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