We're snowed in, the house insulated and muzzled inside a snowglobe. My daughter is fighting a cold and passed out on the couch. I hear her snoring on one side and the little boys playing nicely for once on the other. It is peaceful, quiet, Christmassy. I have good friends, good kids, a good life. The enforced slowness of the storm makes me realize that I need to slow down myself, need to not borrow trouble, need to not give so much attention to the ache in my chest that says I will always be alone, that I will never be understood. The ache is real but it isn't everything, and it doesn't deserve the space it takes up in my head. I will wrap it in cotton and shove it into a corner and take the good in what comes my way, even if it doesn't always come in the shape I think I want.
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