I'm trying not to let it but Miss January is getting to me. She is such a downer since my Thirties.
This is my designated rubble place. And I'm feeling gritty.
How do you celebrate the day of your birth. Mine was 32 years ago tomorrow in Pasadena, California. My Dad then, was attending the Art Institute and my Mom was raising my only-14-months-older-than-me sister, Ashley (who's coming for a visit in February--now, see February has something to offer). But, January? January is cold and void of visitors.
Dr. Gooch was so depressed on the couch Friday afternoon because he works his large hands raw to cracking handing out second chances to takers in the ER. His family of six and the Cicada Cottage plus their Uncle Sam drain the dough so quickly. All he wants is a Brazilian getaway hut where he can sip Guarana and watch the shadow of his youth in Tim Howard's dives on the field (am I close?). I baked him a comforting quiche which he ate distracted but satisfied and sent him off with those hands. Then we piled into the car to fetch brother from first grade. For the life of me I couldn't bring myself to head back to that couch. That January couch.
So we drove. All my life there has always been something about *going somewhere* that made perspective seep back in and crowd out my gloom. I hadn't taken the camera roadside in a long while and four empty milk bottles clanged in the back of the van. These two discoveries gave purpose to our wandering. We made our way past the white beehive boxes, that driveway soldiered with now naked flowering pear trees feigning warmth in the 5pm fire of the setting sun. We arrived at the rocker-lined porch beyond which we would exchange our empty bottles for fresh ice cream in cones for the rascals.
Avery, without her own cone, waddled between siblings sweetly singing, "Bite? Bite?". They all gladly complied (she has magical magical powers which I would like the secret to harnessing). The wind was coming fast and sharp over the empty farmland and made us all yell to no one and each other trying to get settled back in the warmth of the van.
On our way home I paused at the crossroad to capture the last of the day's light with my camera. And, you know, I swear those solemn silos sat on top of that hill like a wise wife and her husband whose children were grown and gone. They stared me down as if to say "Snap out of it, child!"
I would that there were a place that specialized in fresh perspective. To this place I would bring my empty January Soul and yell, "Fillerup! With a cherry on top!"