The Magpie

(Claude Monet's The Magpie)

She awoke suddenly. Searching for her glasses, she realized her respite had turned into an afternoon nap. She found herself clutching the throw around her chin. It had turned much colder. Looking across the room she saw the curtain billowing about the open window.

As she pulled herself up from the chair, the book she was reading fell to the floor; frightening the cat from the ottoman. She went to close the window. The afternoon sun was dimming and the colors of dusk began to fall upon the snow covered lawn. She reached for the ancient sweater that she lived in during these cold, winter months. The sweater was once her Mother’s. Stretched and pulled, but still providing great warmth. It had a sweet smell to it, no matter how many times she laundered it. Perhaps it was the scent of almonds? She always pulled it close to her nose to breathe in its fragrance; it always smelled of almonds to her. She wondered why.

Drawing her arms to her chest, she stood silently, watching the shadows dance in the view before her. After a moment she took her now empty cup into the kitchen. Refilling the teapot, she was reminded of the winters of her youth. Days of sledding, snowball fights and hot chocolate waiting on the kitchen table. She remembers the whipped cream grabbing her nose; there was an endless supply of whipped cream. The winters these days were less active, more introspective and often spent alone.

That was her choice; the aloneness. She sought winter, not to hibernate, but, to rejuvenate. She would spend time among her books and her music that she stored for this very time. Time to collect herself and listen to her mind, body and soul. Like nature, she planned to re-emerge in the spring.

But now, she would breathe in the cold air and watch the twilight make an early entrance. She would stoke the fires in the hearth and wrap herself in the warmth of her cocoon. The coldness was outside her home; warm thoughts and memories surrounded her. Life is good.