The expected snow failed to materialize here in St. Louis, but the shockingly cold wind chill kept me in my hotel room for a solid five hours. I slipped out this morning to make sure the rental car would start and run to the grocery store for something fresh, grapes, juice, you know the kind of thing. I had decided not to go visit an old friend, because stuck on the side of the road in minus five degree weather did not appeal to me. If the car works, you’re fine; but it’s not my car and I have no idea whether or not it would. I texted my son the same advice, hauled two or three lightly packed bags to my room, and made a cup of tea.
From noon to five, then, I took a kind of snow day. I watched the morning talk shows on YouTube replay, reheated leftover lobby breakfast, and dumped everything out of my computer bag, purse, and suitcase. With all of my possessions reorganized and neatly stowed, I took to wrapping the last few presents, which I had actually forgotten beneath the pile of wool sweaters that I packed so tightly that I had to check my carry-on due to excess weight.
Now I’m waiting for my sister to arrive. We’ll figure something out for dinner and settle into a long homey chat, with the facial expressions and hand-gestures that we can’t see or share over the telephone. An absence of static always improves communication. Eventually, she’ll make her way home and I’ll curl under the afghan that she brought to the hotel. A good novel, cold water, and some place to rest my legs. In a hotel room with more space than my tiny house, 2300 miles from the levee road on which it sits, I will make myself comfortable and hope that Christmas Eve morning brings more sun, a higher ambient temperature, and clear highways to south Saint Louis where my little brother’s family has invited me to dine.
It’s the twenty-third day of the one-hundred and eighth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.
A recent sunrise on Brannan Island Road, beside the San Joaquin River in the California Delta where I live.