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[personal profile] hafoc
In the family room of a house where I lived decades ago, I am standing alone. I am toward the middle of the room with my hands in my pockets, doing nothing.

The carpet I'm standing on is a brick red-orange, a lot more attractive than it sounds. The walls are paneled but it's a high quality paneling; real walnut veneer. I can't see it at the moment, but to my right is the fireplace my father and I built, while to the left is a picture window. The drapes are open. They shouldn't be; it's pitch black outside, and bitter cold. I can feel the chill in that direction as I stand there.

Meanwhile, somewhere in the world, epochs ended and began, the world shifted on its axis, or angels spoke truth to prophets. Something like this must have happened. If not, why would this moment of standing, doing nothing, feeling a chill, be the memory that always flashes into my mind when I think of the week between Christmas and New Year's Day?

Memory is a strange companion, quirky and more than a little bit mad.

January 2015

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