We are back at home now, on pause, just waiting. For snow, for some holiday spirit, for our little black kitty to come back home. It’s only the second morning and when I went out on the terrace at 6am to look for her, the sky was full of stars, scattered between the tall pines and down to the water. I’m always looking for signs, and maybe that’s one.
It was one of those plane rides home in which I cried shortly after take-off, looking down on my girls’ homes. I never know why and it’s always complicated. There was a lot of adult crying in California whenever we tried to discuss the aftermath of this election. Valerie declared that she had not permitted herself to read a single discussion or analysis online, but that didn’t keep her from tears. Thank goodness for children, who always bring you back to what’s real–including nine-year old Cormac, who dressed in his too-small elf Christmas pajamas for Thanksgiving dinner as a jumpstart to the holiday season. And, people were lovely on the day after Thanksgiving! Our Uber driver was beside himself with joy to have the freeway empty of cars at 7 a.m. on the way to the airport, in sunrise pink-blue light, and the last of November’s moon a tiny fingernail hanging low in the sky. We were seated in the back of a full plane to Seattle and a large family was the last to board in the final rows of seats. They were carrying an enormous IKEA-sized blue bag filled with boxes, and the overhead compartment doors were already closed, and the pilot had asked the flight attendants to be seated for take-off. Two or three people around us jumped up, and said, “Here, I can put my bag under the seat, there’s room for your boxes up above.” No wonder I cried.
They say that a weather change is coming and the first week of December will bring snow and cold. I suspect I’ll feel more like getting a Christmas tree. I so hope Chatpeau comes home to her heating pad in the garage.