Not Said

At least there's that. What remains. A skeletal framework devoid of flesh, but enough to reconstruct, there's a program for this, a way you might have looked; add some muscle and fat, a layer of skin, you almost have a person. I tend to avoid the body politic, not that I'm unaware, just that I don't give a shit. When you camp above 12,000 feet, always carry an extra pair of socks. You can tuck your hands into an armpit, but it's hard to do anything with your feet. Extremities are a problem. A nip of Glendronach might help, at least seemingly, when the cold nips at your toes, but it's a false positive. Not unlike that sense of euphoria you might experience when the rubber hits the road. It's hard to segregate feelings. My phone is out again, and I couldn't talk to you if I wanted to. B is off to Massachusetts, everyone at work is taking time off. D was there today and we finally delivered an Empire Dresser that was bought at the last fund raiser. The house, perched on Timlin Hill, is accessed from the back, by awful winding steps. It was a chore, but we got it done. Just time to pick up a few things and get home before dark. Much to do this week, snow, they're saying, next weekend, so I need to lay in supplies, go the library, split some red maple. I'll have to leave the Jeep at the bottom of the hill. Break out the crampons. Sherpa mode. Survival mode. Fox prints around the puddle in the driveway. They're beautiful, perfect. I think I could probably cut one out of the ground and bake it in the stove, it's mostly clay. It would make a nice paperweight. A nice object. The prints, when the clay is the correct viscosity, are clean-edged and sharp. They're exquisite: coon, possum, various birds; dogs, cats, and my own tracks, where I skirt the puddle. Astra announced at the pub today, that she was pregnant, over three months in and she hardly shows; she and Issac, I think, will be good parents. A bean soup for the holidays, and biscuits I can finish in the toaster oven. My holiday plans.