Some nights are like this, a glass of burgundy, candles permeating the air with lavender, a subtle nostalgia for having passed this way. I look out into the darkness, and it makes itself at home.
The window on this world I am reflecting on is made of lace, from which I do not hide behind, for I view this space, with gratitude and grace.
Every living cell within me carries the physical recollection of Christmas Eve, for here is a moment in time I have lived, loved, and left behind a number of times.
This space of transitory occupancy, complete with worn-out habits, is like the comfort of the threadbare winter coat I don’t want to let go of.
Light enters here and here butterflies are born. A child finds his way home. Words flow freely, easily, Although as wit would have it with a price to pay, this Eve is but a stop along the way, for yet another window waits upon another day.
