Today is the Winter Solstice, the First Day of Winter, the Shortest Day of the Year, the Darkest. Ili has gone to her parents to see her parents and six sisters, so I will have to celebrate alone. I have a pair of antlers I will tie to my head and some frankincense and myrrh to burn. I will run about naked in the moonlight looking for willing victims.
In truth, I have a bunch of household chores to which I must attend. I don't want to. I hate to. But I must.
Ili and I have agreed not to buy one another presents this Christmas. It is just too much, we think. Instead, we will eat and drink and have fun. But yesterday I came across an old Smith-Corona typewriter that is in working condition. I may buy it today. It can be a present for us. We can type messages to one another on it. I don't know why I should want it, but I do. I will type letters to friends, I tell myself. They will be charmed to receive them.
This year, the season seems to be lacking. There is something missing. Maybe the Grinch in Chief stole it, he and his twisted little dwarfs. Too much commercialism. Too many conflicts. Too many disasters. Too many accusations.
Not enough love.
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