Home is Sleeping

The sewing machine sits quietly in the midday light cuddling the Christmas tree skirt that's halfway done. Scissors and pins and bright turquoise thread sleep under the tree waiting patiently to be replaced by wrapped presents with ribbon and string. A solitary garland made from a knit scarf hangs across the front window, hinting at the slow churning of Christmas to-do wheels as each little project comes to a close and is placed in a cleared away spot. Olive sleeps on the couch amongst various blankets and pillows. Her fox snuggled in tight amongst her legs, her chin resting on its tail. The orchids hibernate, waiting for a slurp of fertilizer before they spring back into flowering action. Harlequin twitches his nose in the brisk air and fluffs out his fur, adjusting his paws underneath is cozy coat. Keats is asleep in his crib with foxes, raccoons, owls and squirrels. His chest rises and falls, his mouth is open as he clutches a nook in one hand and a squeaking corduroy rabbit in the other. Constellations rise to the ceiling from a silent sea turtle. The only noise is the trickling of a filter and a spattering of clanking keys as I sit soaking in the quiet and the still. It won't last much longer. With Birch's request for paper garlands and the inevitable end of nap time fast approaching, silence has become a luxury and the small part of me that still yearns for a bit of time to myself and for myself frantically turns over the options: a bath, a book, a nap, a letter... a nap.