The wind is howling and twisting and turning the pine branches which seem to bend enough to touch the ground. The rain began falling last night, and when I woke up, I could hear it on the roof and windows. As I’m writing, wet snow, slanted by the wind from the north, is beginning to fall, but it hasn’t the look of permanence. The rain will be back, and the wind will howl all day into tomorrow.

The wind is the sort which is the backbone of every tale told by the fire, tales of creatures who roam the night, their sounds muted by the wind. Branches against the windows become scratches made by disfigured hands or even hooks. I remember those stories my father told us. We knew they weren’t real or at least pretended to know, but fear is more easily muted in a warm house with lots of lights and closed doors and my father to protect us.

We did a couple of errands yesterday and today we’ll stay home. It is a day not fit for man nor beast. I had to push Gracie out the door this morning, and the trauma has kept her napping on the couch for hours. Maddie and Fern, neither of whom had any trauma, are also napping. I imagine theirs are gestures of solidarity.

Today is laundry day maybe. I did bring it down from upstairs, but that doesn’t mean anything. The laundry bag can sit against the cellar door for a day or two without me caring. The old me, the before I retired me, would already have had the laundry washed, dried, folded and ready for upstairs. The retired me just dropped it by the door.

The day is ugly. I have no ambition, but I don’t really need any. I have a new book that seems to want my attention. I didn’t make my bed on purpose, not out of laziness but rather because the thought that today, a dark, dismal, rainy day is perfect for a nap in a cozy, warm bed.