Today my children and I took a walk in the late afternoon, the time when most children are grumpy and most women who are at home with them begin to understand why so many housewives in the mid-20th Century were alcoholics.
So instead of a martini I took the tonic of air and fading sunlight. The light in Denver has been depressingly dim the last several days, the atmosphere muddled and brownish, the temperature cold but not refreshingly so. Still, I do appreciate capturing moments more austere in temperament.
During this time of year, the sun seems to just graze the tips of emptied branches, and gives a subtle glow to flushed skin.
At the park my children ran like feral animals, as they should, and then began howling, as they should not, about the cold. Reluctantly I turned them toward home, just as the sky grew a pale pink and skeins of geese flew high toward the East.
Once on the bridge close to our house we saw the moon. It was tangled in the bare branches of a cottonwood tree, like a pearl in uncombed hair.
Tomorrow my two elder children return to school after a long Thanksgiving break. I think I will miss them by morning’s end. I’ll have this moon to remind me of our walk, and their loose-limbed wild pale bodies, my own little winter saplings.