The second day I’m home, my father takes me to where the beavers are making their dam. There is a half-finished one that someone has pulled out of the water and left dried out and useless on the shore. There are beaver tracks around but no beavers. I called the town, my father says. They’re going to cause a flood.
I haven’t been home for Christmas in three years. Last year S and I spent Christmas Eve on the beach and then went back to his apartment to make stuffed shells and twice baked potatoes and other things I can’t remember. We had a Christmas tree made of felt with felt ornaments and a lopsided, felt star on the top.
I got back to the East Coast on Wednesday and I am still jet-lagged, spending the mornings in a haze of leftover sleeping pills, fingers weighted and clumsy. My lips are perpetually dry and I’ve taken two baths already; last night the water was bright pink and sparkly and smelled like flowers.
S landed in Boston last night and took the bus up to Vermont and I laid in bed and finished a book I wasn’t impressed with. I have wrapping left to do and baking and decorating and I can’t find any of my winter hats.
There are two or three half-filled water glasses in my room and my brothers and their wives and their babies all arrive this week and I’m enjoying the house to myself, every minute until I lose it.