The holidays. I do not do much. This is a fact. It is also how I prefer it.
A quiet day. The morning is like any other. The sun comes up. I make tea. It tastes the same. The house is still. It is a good stillness. There are no plans. No place to go. I can work if I want. And I do. The work is a comfort. The screen glows. The work appears. It is not a day for a rush. So I do not rush.
Later, there is a tree. A small one. I put it on the table in my room. A small tree. Fake needles. A string of lights. It is not a big thing. It does not take much time. But it is a thing. It makes the room a little different. It makes the room a little warmer. I also make a cup of cocoa. A warm, heavy drink. A small thing. But a good thing.
I call him. The phone rings. It is a small thing that makes a long distance small. He is doing his own holiday. His own quiet. We talk about it. The things we are not doing. The things we are doing. The sound of his voice is a comfort.
The day moves slow. I read. I look out the window. The street is empty. It is a quiet street anyway, but this is a different quiet. It is a holiday quiet. The kind of quiet that means everyone else is busy. They are doing things. I am here. And he is here, too.
The day ends. The light goes away. The streetlights come on. The television is a soft sound. A small comfort. I am tired. A good tired. A tired that comes from being still. The holiday is not a thing with a lot of noise. It is a thing with a lot of quiet. I like the holidays.
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