Ice forms long slippering islands around the bridge abutments that stand silent and strong in the middle of the river as cars pass over its surface above, heading towards the city centre. Winter’s first blanket of snow has arrived, turning the world pristine white beneath its embrace.
I sit and watch the river flow. Candlelight glowing in the still darkness of morning not yet broken.
It is a week until Christmas Day and the world holds its collective breath, waiting for news to unfold about the latest tentacles of this virus that is holding us captive to its advancements.
I have not yet started my Christmas dinner prep. Place cards. Table centrepiece. Festive boughs. All the ‘beauty fixins’ that will greet our guests and say, “You are so welcome here.”
We will be a smaller than normal crowd. There is less safety in numbers so we adjust, adapt, accept the dictates of these strange times.
To gather. To be together.
To be safe.
I wait. Hesitant.
I want to safeguard my hopes. Protect my spirit from disappointment.
Christmas is one week away. The world awaits good tidings and joy.
Perhaps, rather than waiting I shall step into festive preparation believing in its possibilities, knowing that in the creating, my spirits will be lifted, and in the glow of creative expression and anticipation, I will be safe from disappointment.
Morning has not yet broken through night’s darkness.
Time flows like the river.
Hope rises in the promise of morning light soon to awaken and I awaken from my lethargy as dawn breaks through the looming darkness.