Silhouettes and Sweaters

A young girl sits in her customary resting place, in front of the spatting fire, and contemplates the the splendid day that she's had. The slight glow of the flames accentuate the silhouette of her hair (pulled into a side bun just below and slightly behind her right ear, with its loose ends hanging out after the happenings of the evening) and bring to life the rich hues of her heathered sweater.

First her mother had made scrumptious, heart-shaped pancakes that, topped with butter and a little bit of brown sugar, had been devoured quite happily by none other than the girl herself. Then there was the opening of made-with-care Valentine's cards from mother and sisters. Each one was given with much love and a sweet note from the sender (and there was even chocolate, the girl rather suspects her mother guilty of this splendid act). After this there was the customary devotional with the mother and youngest sister (and, of course, the youngest sibling who has yet to be known by the world) it included the reading of a hard-backed blue Bible, the instruction for living the life of a woman after God's own heart from a book written by Elizabeth George, followed by a novel about a scholarly young lady who finds herself in the midst of an adventure in what seems to be a place of faeries and mystical beings. Next came the doing of the girl's school, which sometime just before noon was interrupted by the pleasant surprise of flowers sent by one of her most loved heroes, her father, with a note who's end read "Love, daddy". She placed them atop the hope-chest that he'd built especially for her some time ago (a lovely thing made of pine and stained a deep "cherry red" that looks something like mahogany and then with a polish over the top that makes it shine like the treasure-box it is). This was followed by more school, and then a break for lunch, and then more school again until sometime after the fourth afternoon hour, which ushered in a time of preparation where the girl readied herself for a nice dinner with her mother and sisters at local restaurant with spicy foods and peanut sauces and plenty of rice. It really was a lovely time, full of happy talk and the ponderings of whether military men or scholars can best withstand intolerably spicy foods. They returned home eventually of course, and then the girl had to finish up the bit of school that she had left to do (by this point her hair had already begun to fight its way out of its confining pins) which she did as quickly as she could manage so that she would be able to eat a brownie while listening to a dramatized retelling of St. Valentine's heroic tale with the family of her's that was home at the time. And then it was all over... and here she sit's in her customary place in front of the fire, contemplating the the day with the glowing embers accentuating her silhouette and the colour of her cozy sweater while she writes about her day and the fire that does all this accentuating and highlighting of silhouettes and sweaters.

You Want To Talk To Me?

My toes are positioned quite close to the merry little fire, and I'm enjoying the dry crackling and tapping and clicking of its voice, which, if you aren't fluent (and I'm not), sounds rather akin to Morse Code. One might almost contrive a belief that these flickering pillars of flame are trying to communicate to me: "Feed me, feed me, or else I'll die", "Such lovely wood, yes, lovely. I haven't had wood like this since yesterday. Yes, very lovely wood". Or perhaps they are pouring out to me the woes of their rather confined life: "I would so love to be in the forest, where there are lots of trees to play on and all those little bushes to consume... but poor me, I'm stuck in this little black box and I can only play with the toys that you give me, and only eat the food that you bring. don't you think you could let me out for just a little while? I promise I would only eat just a few little bushes... I promise not to even touch the trees or go anywhere near the house. Oh, please?" One might be able to imagine that these glowing fronds of heat are trying to tell you something important "Now, if you'll only give me that log sitting there. Yes, that one. I'll tell you all about this week and what it will be. but I can only whisper it in your ear so bring your head just little closer... ah, but it won't work through the glass so I suppose you'll have to find out about the week all by yourself." or maybe he's just telling me the news. "A spider climbed up my chimney last night and he got away before I could catch him. And then there was a little star, way far above that I stared at until in moved away, and by then it was too light to find another one... perhaps I shall see another one tonight". And of course he would ramble off until I got up and left, and then perhaps he would talk to his door and ask him what he thought of the spider, and why he hadn't had the sense to block him out before he got in.

The Crickets Let Lax Their Nighttime Tunes

The morning sun's bright eyes blink open after her night of restful slumber, she stretches her slender fingers over the tops of the trees and caresses them, as one might caress the hair of a tired child, the gold of her skin slips between the short stalks of winter grass as she runs away from the eastern mountains, towards the sleeping houses and barns, sheds and nests, and hollowed trees that are the homes of so many. Her fire-y hair streams behind her like the pennant of some mighty fortress slapping in an angry gale. she climbs first up the side of the hill, letting the wet fronds of grass, bush, and flower swish against her warm body, feeling the coolness of the night before dissolve beneath her pattering feet. Up she goes, over the crest and down again on the other side, tripping lightly to the middle of the field, all the while singing sweet songs into the windows and doorways of nearby dwellings, sweetly waking all who are not yet up and about. "I've come," she sings "I've come and it's begun again." Her voice lilts off the meadow tumbles and hillocks, melting the frosty shadows and nudging the birds to join in her melody "I've come, I've come, Now up, you come too, up, up, and follow me all the way to the west." The birds begin to sing along, and the crickets let lax their nighttime tunes, making room for morning, in all her young newness of song. She has come again, fresh and sweet and ready to set loose the joyous harmonies of another day.