Yesterday, the day after Christmas, the kids played hide and seek in the yard. The sight was so sad to me that I fled to the next room to drown my sorrows in brownies and lemon cake and melon liqueur. I gobbled sweets until my stomach turned sour and round and I was a different kind of sad.
A snowless Christmas is almost as awful as a grandmotherless Christmas.
The leaves are brown and the sky is a hazy shade of winter. Yes, Susanna. But there’s no patch of snow on the ground, not a one. And there’s no grandma to laugh at the wind-up Santa on the coffee table as he shakes his ass to a tune that’s getting harder and harder to listen to as the batteries die.
As everything dies but this fucking year that will not end.
This life that will not…