it was a long winter

It wasn't the amount of snow. It was the cold. It was how long it was cold, in Hotlanta. It was so cold this past winter. I just wanted to make soup and popcorn and burrow under old quilts and watch old movies; and look out the kitchen window to see the winter birds forage on all the old seed pods in the garden; take selfies of ourselves now, and compare them to old pictures of us on my dresser and tell ourselves we're not that old yet; buy an enormous (heavy!) cast iron pot and make more and more soup; get up at four in the morning and turn on the lovely lamps and write in my cozy writing place; skype with students sitting at their desks while I sit at my kitchen counter, soup bubbling on the stove; write encouragements on my chalkboard wall so I remember what's good about the isolation of winter; eat all the salads Jim made and all his baked potatoes, too; and wait for spring, spring, glorious faraway spring.

Making home in winter. I loved every quiet minute of it.


  1. I loved reading this post as much as my eyes loved seeing these cozy bits of your life, Deb. They're small bits but so telling. Well done.

  2. You are such an artist, Jean. This means a lot, coming from you. Thank you, my sweet friend. You must come visit me again, this time in Hotlanta! xoxo


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