The house is quiet.
I’m sitting by the wood stove, the fire steady and warm. Outside, Maine is completely still—no sound, no movement, just winter holding its breath in anticipation of the holiday.
South Florida feels thankfully far away. Distant. A little grimy. Always moving, even when it’s supposed to be resting.
Here, everyone’s asleep. The fire does the talking. Nothing is rushing me. The contrast is sharp, and tonight, I’m grateful for it.







