#socksandtea

Sitting in my father's study, it is quiet.

The heating is softly whirring in the background. The room is dimly lit by a single lamp. Noise outside is muffled by winter snow.

You know that sense of muted-ness that accompanies snowfall? It is unique to winter. It is especially heightened when the snow falls in large, fluffy clumps - the seasonal counterpart to summer's stray floating dandelion seeds. Perfectly symmetrical crystallized compounds, elegantly dancing, swirling and twirling their way down, down. Settling in heaps, asleep. Heaps that melt and trickle not so silently through sewer grates when the spring comes, becoming the liquid that feeds the crops and awakens the flora. That is the Spring - a hubbub of activity.

But until then, they wait patiently in blankets of white silence. 

I am in my white robe my sisters gave me for Christmas, thick socks on my feet. A cup of plain hot water in front of me, a quarter-finished weekend crossword, a pen at the ready. A suspense novel from the library waiting to be cracked into.

Just an hour ago I was eating at a noisy, crowded restaurant. We cooked raw meat and seafood in a flaming grill at the center of the table. My belly is now full and oversatiated.

It's Saturday and I am alone now in a big house and it's cold outside.