A lovely Christmas, the build up ridonculous for all those who welcome and supply, who think of every moment when slack threatens mood into a twist; who provide and keep providing, always on their feet, with an astonishing wealth of pretty much everything. I was there, a guest, and I enjoyed it all. The winds rose, cirrus clouds capping the sky and I knew, I just knew, my home was further away. I remember the antsy feeling that morning, my son reassuring, as he always does, but nothing stopped my confoundle, my uncertainty, my maybe not getting back home. Ach, I knew I would one day, but they, my kids, had their kids arriving to fill beds the next day, and I had to go.  I am so busy making everyone else easy. It thinks me.

Home now, my own bed and space and. candles and tunes. Gales and stair-rod rains. Stair-rods, old thing, the brass rods that held the steps to the risers. I remember them, remember them being polished of a morning, although not by me. Again, the thinks. Old and new, like this time, this waiting for the bells, as it is on the islands. There will be a dance. I might walk down. We want so much, miss so much, grieve so much, plan so much, love so much.

A confoundle

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