It happens ... snow melts. The holidays end. I run around making returns to the same stores where I made unwise purchases a few days before. And the kids depart (again) to their separate lives and corners. It's really rather violent, emotionally — these wild swings of togetherness and separation. I'm reminded of Frosty the Snowman, who was nothing but a puddle after martyring himself for that oddly large-footed little girl in a hot greenhouse full of holiday poinsettias.
(But I'm no martyr.) Then there was the Wicked Witch of the West, who melted with a casual fling of Dorothy's bucket. (And I'm not a witch ... or not often.) So, they're off: our little boy back to work in the big city; our little girl for a few days with her grandmother and back to college after that. Home is awfully quiet — though it's liberating, too, if/when I'm being honest with myself. Lucky me. I'm off for a couple of warm days with Mr. Betty on a beach farther South ...
But wait: Same day, two hours later ...
And take a closer look at this one to see a truly pained expression ...
