December 27, 2022

change

A second pot of coffee burbles in my in-laws’ kitchen. David is doing his back exercises. 
Harriett fields a call from Maureen next door. My wife is a third of the way into a new book. 
The poinsettias on the dining room table move slightly when the heat comes on. 
Outside, clouds drift by unceremoniously. A bag of wadded wrapping paper
is in the garage. I am wearing a blue sweater with a pattern that looks, from a distance,
like a trail of snowflakes. There are loose plans for a walk, or a drive to Asbury Park.
Without any effort, a softness has descended on our shoulders. I could see it over
breakfast, the way we sat in different seats, and abandoned our napkins. And I see it now,
the fine dust of crumbs where our plates had been. I know this is only temporary, 
but in this very moment, I realize I don’t want to change a thing.