This evening, Meander and I are both fighting sleep. Okay, I’m fighting, and she’s giving in . . . with her head on my lap as I try to write. 
The rain has danced on the farmhouse roof all day, and right now, the only color I can see from the living room window is the hint of yellow-green that still tints the neighbor’s cow pasture.
Fog has cozied up over the mountains across the way, and I can’t help but think of days when these mountains meant isolation – sought after and treasured by some, resented by others.
Now, though 18-wheelers move down the road out front, their last runs before the Thanksgiving holiday, I hope.
And I sit, a little weary from book publication and the cold that sits perched at the edge of my spirit.
This week of giving thanks will always be hard for me – Mom’s death coming at me twice with the date and the holiday as reminders.
And yet, I find myself grateful for so much – a new husband who loves better than anyone has. A book in the world that seems to take small, wispy breaths on its own. Land that gives me grace in the softness of tree branches and raindrops. A pup warm and sprawled and kittens as close to the heater as they dare.
Much of life is gray like this afternoon, and in that fog and shadow, everything is muted. Everything is softer.
Like a breath.
Happy Thanksgiving and Happy Hanukkah, all.