Memory, Speak.

There's still snow and ice over most of the yard and already the sun is headed down again, which means not much except that the backyard sundial continues to tell its one time, which is winter. Couple that with what direction the thin light is sliding into the house from—from which the thin light is sliding into the house—and we can start to guess at o'clock, can be sure of something post-lunch and pre-cocktail. Add now, please, a child who suddenly won't much nap, and it makes for kind of a slow day here at 709, a plodding one, one that feels as though its middle's been taken out and what remains is a hazy memory of coffee and whatever's happening now.

I don't remember Christmas that well. I sure as hell don't remember the fall semester. I think I had a medium day at the desk yesterday. Today was not as good. We're out of Cheerios and juice. We have no crackers. We have barely enough diced butternut squash to carb-load the Toad for a night he only half the time sleeps through any more. We are short on beer and medium on whiskey. We have firewood. A few long-sleeve shirts are laundered and hung. We do not need anybody to come get us. We are light on supplies, but we will survive the night.

It's cold out there, and holding cold. Tomorrow we sniff at the edges of forty degrees, so they say. I could hope for that.