Not Cold.

Not anything, really. Not much breeze and slightly warmer than it is in the house, so: windows open. But none of the celebration that normally attends such a thing. I don't know what it is. Maybe the sleet ruined me. Made me too ready for whatever it is that's next.

Tonight I'm cooking and freezing chili for 10, to take to Nashville on Wednesday. The pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving is over, and now we hang on against the prospect of actual Thanksgiving. I'll avoid forecast jokes for now. I've got it idealized, of course, which is the whiskey-soaked Norman Rockwell in me, but I remember it as something astonishing, somewhere safe, a warm house smelling of sandwiches and awful coffee, the lighting different than anywhere I'd ever been, definitively my grandmother's house, all those odd angles and half-corners— my family the way I still can't break myself of thinking of it.

And now we're all married and not ourselves anymore, at least not the selves we were. Which of course and etcetera, but still.