Tonight my grandfather asked if Z was with us for Christmas. After a weekend of cold, when a piece of metal bound the auger in the pellet stove, and then an emotional phone conversation where it was decided that no, not right now, not Portland, and then my dear mother, and then a windstorm that banged against the walls and woke us before 4am and knocked out the power, and the resulting cold and dark day, we concluded that it had indeed been the worst weekend.
The company couldn’t’ve been better, though. There were lots of hugs and kisses with my nephew, as much to keep warm as for assurance (the only child I can hold like this because he is mine), and violin/piano duets, while Mom and I pick away at our favorite (easiest?) Christmas carols. There are also mice, who usually have the courtesy to die quietly in traps. But one made contact, chewing on something in my bedroom until I awoke, flipped on the light, and saw it on the floor making aggressive eye contact.
The next night it lost a small amount of blood as it died instantly in a snap trap. This is the country, and we haven’t winterkilled yet. We don’t plan to start now.