It is snowing. Appropriate for today. It will not stick, at least not in my backyard. I see a pond of brown rainwater and mud blanketing the parking lot. The ground must be too warm for snow. But in the asphaltine sky, I see the promise of untold depths as they flake and flutter earthward.
A friend called last night. Just to hear my voice, she called. I felt the warmth from that complement from the wiggles of my toes through the cockles of my heart and all the way to the tingling tangles of my locks.
Two weeks from now, I should be in orientation. I will have turned in all my required paperwork. I will be all set for direct deposit, insurance, etc. For the first time in I do not know how many years, all of my stuff will be in one place. Admittedly, that place will be “storage someplace in Illinois” but it will be one place as opposed to scattered to the four winds.
As the temperature drops, I feel my inner warmth grow. I know that I am not alone in this. I am not the only one who volunteers at the shelters or gives a little more of what I have. In my case, it is time. Time is all that I have for now and it is a limited resource.
I have not played with Dulcinea yet. I polished her recently though and inhaled her rich perfume. I ran my fingers along her neck and body and listened to her voice. She is still true, only my fingers are false. Their long rest has made them weak. I know that if I were to try, I would not even be able to play “Ode to Joy” let alone any of the complicated songs in my head. “Carol of the Bells” would be a challenge. Handel’s “Messiah” would be right out.
I think that I shall put on some Ella Fitzgerald and get ready for the winter.