The chickens roosting in the trees haven't yet stirred under the thin layer of fresh snow encasing them. The cats aren't yet pacing and neither is the dog.
The news is slow; football scores, talk of pending awards shows, and maps of winter weather.
I write out a to do list for the week ahead. It too is slow. At least the words are. I have a hard time finding the energy to want to do anything.
I should note: I am sick. It's probably not the flu, possibly strep, defiantly a miserable state. I am also home alone.
Beach was carted off with Sophie yesterday heading to the lure of the mall on a Saturday afternoon followed by a sleepover. BC loaded with coffee and ski gear off to see Fisher in Parowan.
I spent the night not really sleeping. Listening to Radiolab. Slipping into slumber and popping back out of it until it was time to get up.
After my second cup of coffee I call Conner to ask after Baby J whose presence is overdue. In his deep, sleepy voice he explains they overslept their alarm. They are on their way.
The chickens are waiting for me but I am waiting for Baby J so she can join me. So we can go stomping out through the snow to feed them. I promised her yesterday when I was too sick to go out with her that we would go out together today.
It will start out with her marching beside me practicing saying, "shoo, shoo!". But at the first hint of the loose hens she will demand to be rescued from the ground. Balancing her in one arm and the metal scrap bowl in the other she will talk about the rooster (which sounds a lot like she is saying monster), muttering, "I don't yike it, Grandma" but putting fear aside she wants so badly to see and feed the chickens.
Like BC, the kids (Conner and Lexi) are going skiing.
Baby J and I will putter around the farm just the two of us while they climb the snowy slopes. We will bake bread, play in the snow, eat lunch, and play with Play Dough.
It's not work. For me it's time stepping back into the past, a decade back down the ladder of childhood. It is hours of wading in wonder like drifts of snow.
The blue morning fades to shades of dirty white. Any minute now her little fingers balled up in a fist will knock on the frosty glass of the front door. She will push her face against it trying to see in. Her breath making clouds; chapped cheeks, blinking eyes, and a tiny bow mouth. Baby J on the doorstep as the sky touches a ribbon of pink light and the day begins again.
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