In weather such as this, it occurs to me that it must be a great thing to be in posession of a tail. Especially if said tail is covered in fur and optimal in length to cover your nose when you curl up in the prime position in my bed. Prime position of course being snuggled firmly into my side, as I am apparently the radiator around which my shivering family choose to congregate inside this frosty house.
At present the Possum is curled up much like the cat into my side with his elbows and knees drawn in, nose carefully embedded in my waist. He is snoring softly and I wish I could describe how much I enjoy the sound and how difficult it is to stop smothering him with kisses. I adore the way his fingers curl and reach out for me in sleep and the way his toes seek me if I move away a breath. He has been sleeping for nearly two hours now and I am more besotted now than I was then, when we were reading stories together and he made RAWR noises for the dinosaurs.
It has been bitterly cold of late, seeping in under the floorboards and through the cracks in the doors. This is a drafty house at the best of times, but when the wind is whistling and pained, there is no escaping her. Huddled beneath 2 feather quilts and wincing when needing to leave that sanctuary.
We converted the Possum's cot last night, and now all my babies sleep in beds. The cot pieces stacked in the garage, never to be used again. Of course I have said that before, and I found out not a week later that they would indeed be used, but this time is a little different. I am happy but sad at the thought. Intermittenly excited by the plans we can make as a family and the life that will be a little less unstable, especially as the Possum intermittently sleeps through the night. But that wistful sadness that punches me in the gut sometimes, I wonder when it will go away.
It is late afternoon now and the birds are singing in the trees their beautiful twilight songs. The cotton candy streaks of cloud are tinted raspberry pink and the breeze is gentler. Still cold, my nose is still ruddy and my fingertips burn, but not the bitterness of yesterday. It is exploring weather, to put on a jacket and wrap a scarf up to my ears and thump around in waterproof boots to explore the empty streets.
I feel as golden as the sun, fiery against the horizon in a final display for the day. The perfect accompaniment to the chorus of the birds and the gentle rustle of the leaves as the wind sings her whispered words. Little smudges of purple on distant mountain tops heralding the silken cover of night, spangled with stars. I feel that passion stirring again in my chest, that has laid down lame and dormant now for some time. My palms are cut, but they are no longer bleeding, and the pain has settled to a dull ache. I need and want to write now, and my journal is filled with scribbles. Putting me on notice to pull together and stand up to the spray of life as it races through time.
The grey blue mist is taking over the sky now as the sun settles in splendour beneath her blanket of night and I want to fly out to it. Get on a plane and watch her red against the horizon as she sails just out of reach like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I did that once, and found my Gleam. And I fear sometimes I left her there.