It’s a little after 6pm.
I’m sitting on the floor, back against the couch, mac in my lap. In front of me, a candle fills the apartment with the scent of “snow”. Behind me is a haphazard pile of red pillows on the couch — which, upon closer inspection, turns out to be a hastily made nest of sorts where my little man is napping. Occasionally his little arm flies up in his sleep. A bad dream, perhaps? I hope not. Sleep in peace, my baby.
White paper snowflakes, cut out last year and saved in between pages of Picasso’s artwork, hang in the big picture window, dancing in the subtle air currents generated by our humidifer. Electric candles shine, turning what could be a cold black night into a warm, cozy evening. A few gifts are wrapped and sitting on top of my grand piano’s closed lid, awaiting placement under our soon-to-arrive tree.
Dinner has been had. Not much, truth be told. Just vegetables, actually, as Ryan requested. Potatoes, carrots, peas. Salt and pepper. No butter. We’re avoiding such things. Or, at least, he is. I snuck a pat of butter, truth be told.
Now he’s back in his office, programming. Music is playing, as it usually is when he’s working. He says it helps him focus. Not me. Music is meant to be listened to, in my book. I’m not good for much else when I’ve turned it on. Except Bach violin concertos. Those are meant to be listened to early in the morning, and you’re supposed to make breakfast and tidy the kitchen while they’re playing. That’s what I do.
The music he’s chosen is full of worship and scripture. I find my heart turning to the Lord. I’m not saying much, and neither is He. I’m just reaffirming that I love Him, that I want Him more, and He’s answering with His presence.
The baby is stirring. He’ll want his mother.
A full moon is showing in the window.
This is my life.