Upstate

The little town is quiet in the late afternoon when at last we turn onto the main street and snake our way up to the little Victorian gingerbread house that is ours at last. The restaurants have all moved indoors, it is too cold, and the people too tired to fight it anymore. They sit inside the warm, cozy spaces and watch the world on fire around them, while the Hudson freezes over. We move furniture in the middle of the night, fill the car with impulses, and set up the Christmas tree way too early but this year all bets are off, (we say giggling and crying all at once). He writes to say the sabbatical he had planned didn't quite follow his trajectory, that a world under siege is a strange place to work out your clichés and discover your meanings. You think what a privilege it is to do that work at all, while your bank account dwindles in the margins. Winter is coming. 

After two days of country air, your lungs begin to move differently, your muscles strech in new ways with space, you sink into slow food and slower dreams, waking only to hear them move furniture again and to watch the sun at last rise over the old cemetery. It's a strange vacuum, and you know it will not last forever. 

But nothing lasts forever. That's the whole point. 

That's why we have to make the most of every damn morsel we can find.