Barely Breathing...

I long for bright green blades of grass squished between my toes; desire once again to see the lillies waving on long stalks on a cool spring breeze; to gaze once more upon the Japanese cherry in full blossom...

I'm sure if I were into snow tubing or ice fishing or skiing (or some other type of celebrity-killing past time) I would be a much happier camper in 8 degree temperatures at 10:30 pm in the middle of January... But as I stare out the kitchen window upon a yard as barren and lifeless as Mother Theresa's uterus ever was, I can't help but wish I could attract a little more life to the garden than the occasional cardinal or tit mouse...

To make things worse, my gardening catalogs have started arriving in droves, their annual migration to my mailbox usually a well-spring of joy. It is emptier this year, knowing I will not be ordering anything. And while that knowledge is slightly tempered by the fact that once we're in Florida I'll be able to garden for longer months at a time and grow an ever-more tropical range of plants, as I gaze upon pictures of peonies and other such plants I must say goodbye to, heirloom staples from generations of my ancestors here in Pennsylvania...

Sigh. It's going to be bitter-sweet, make no mistake.

Beaux and Hawthorne lay side-by-side before the coal stove, moving only when forced away from the flames, and I pull my mother's hand-made afghan tighter around my shoulders and lean further into Rich, the original human torch. (Seriously, if I could can just a bit of the heat he lets off, I'd be a millionaire in Alaska...)

This is going to be the longest winter ever...