We're now two years into the pandemic. The soul-numbing periods of isolation, fear for the vulnerable, grief for the young and mourning the dead has taken its undeniable toll.
Yet we wait for the sunrise. We celebrate the mundane: decorating the mantles for Christmas, trimming the herbs that maybe this year will survive winter indoors, organizing a drawer full of old cards and photos.
The television and social media bring more frightening news; music becomes a better option, as do Facebook sites like "Growing Up in the 50's and 60's". It's impossible to not look back wistfully, even if we were never inclined to do so before.
In the meantime, this day starts with the temperature barely above zero. The furnace is running continually and the woodstove is already heating the perpetually frigid north end of the house. Birds are busily visiting the suet feeder outside the kitchen window, a few brave chickadees and a downy woodpecker.
As my French Canadian grandmother always said, if you have enough to get by, food and a roof over your head, life is good.
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