I shouldn’t be writing.

My house is a mess. Dirty dishes are piling in the sink because I haven’t emptied the dishwasher in days. Clean laundry sits in hampers earning permanent wrinkles from my neglect. Christmas wrapping is strewn across the living room haphazardly. Half opened mail litters my counters and table.

I shouldn’t be writing.

You’re asleep on the couch, and I should be next to you. Unfortunately I have an affliction that prevents me from taking naps so after soaking up your sweet scent and listening to the hum of your steady breaths for a half hour, I snuck away.

I shouldn’t be writing.

All my meals for the next few days need to be planned meticulously since last night and today was rough on the calorie intake. How could I say no to that sweet face when we had a certificate for a free pizza? And I couldn’t have possibly started my hangover morning with anything but cream cheese toast and greasy bacon because event though that combo may make others gag – it saved this girl’s life. And too many coronaritas last night was completely necessary to meet new couple friends and improve my bowling average. I went from a 42 to an 80 after all.

I shouldn’t be writing.

But I have to. I have to remember this weekend. This day. This moment. Because despite how many other things I should be doing, I have to reflect on how good it is.

This life I live is so good. The kind of good that fills your soul. That puts you at peace. That says, if I didn’t wake up tomorrow morning it’d be okay.

I am full.

My messy house, my snoozing husband, this notorious cat we’re watching for a coworker, all the money spent on Christmas decorations and presents to make our first Christmas alone feel right, a day of skiing to avoid responsibilities, too much junk food that makes my tummy annoyed but my heart content, couple friends to go to movies and bowling and skiing with, a job I love going to and don’t even mind I have to be at on Christmas Eve…

I am so full.

I feared for this holiday season. I feared these six weeks would make me terribly homesick. But now I realize, how could they?

I am already home.


Camille Mae (2)

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Enter your email address to subscribe to Wanders & Words and receive notifications of new posts by email.