Simplicity

It got cold outside, and the old house on Morton Street showed its cracks as winter slipped in and chilled the apartment. I layed on my bed, the fluffy dog next to me under the covers, and caved in to turning the radiator on. As steam came through the risers, it began to heave and puff, to hiss, to bubble. A warm scent came through the air, like an old iron over grandmother's starched linens. By the time I came back from my errand the room had heated a good part of the rest of the apartment as well.

The cold brings out my need to nest. I make entire witches' cauldrons of soup, I fill the kitchen with scents of baked goods and stay up past my bed time putting rolls into ziploc bags and sweeping up piles of flour that didn't make the cut. I spend the afternoon trickling throught Christmas markets, falling in love with objects that have meaning and were made with actual intentions, as I chat up the shop owners and love the Farmer's Market infinitely more on a Monday in December than a Saturday in June. I linger in the Indian market near my old apartment, like I always used to because I love the little bags and cannot get enough. Walking down to the old Subway stop that used to be mine and feeling like time healed that wound, if nothing else. I have moved on, even though I had to travel a thousand miles and back to get there.

Some sort of lovely day. Simple enough. Sometimes, it doesn't have to be complicated.