This mourning is cold. Windy. The air feels so heavy, the rain must be close. I untangle my arms and my hair from Ben's uneasy sleep and slip away, crossing silently to the door on the other side of the room. I dress in the dark, fastening buttons by memory. Fourteen. Then eight. Then two. I slip into my boots and cross the room once again. I am followed this time by a little white friend who is happy to be the focus of my time for the next little while and thrilled that the heat wave is finished.
He recognizes me in black. As do they all. It's a customary sight, a cold kind of comfort to see sometimes. A warmth that you wouldn't expect from Miss Spindley-Bones with the soft scowl. I am elated to see familiar weather in a place that still reeks of mystery and newness. I reach back for my hooded sweater. Pale blue elicits a further frown but I wear it anyway since everything goes with black, except for pale orange. Never wear that, for some reason it's awful. Now we are warm and we take off at a clickety-clip down the concrete.
We pause mid-step, in the air, to listen to the windchimes. Oh! So beautiful!
My stomach is empty and I still am waking up with headaches from Friday night's excitement. I need toast and aspirin and coffee too and maybe a little more sleep would be nice. My guests have two more days to spend with us but it won't be at the break-neck pace we set over the weekend as we tried to impart such magnificent beauty on such a brief period. The effect is delightful, I believe we were successful.
Now we are at the top of a hill and I have let off the gas to coast, considering the brakes but only for a moment, there is lots of room at the bottom and we will slow so gradually. I am working hard to keep the transitions smooth and painless, though I like the pain so very much indeed.
What's amazing to me right now is when I am hungry you can hear it and even feel it and when the boys are hungry you can see it in their eyes.
Patience, please. Patience.
