Dreamed Mott got attacked by a dog and got her foot chewed off. She’d been trying to put Mary’s dog Abbie outside when she turned on her. When I finally saw her bruised leg and missing foot, I felt bad that I’d gotten annoyed with all the messages I’d received at work. I had imagined a little nip. Work was making us take English classes and write papers and I had found myself in an endless loop of having to rewrite the same paper on Charles Chestnutt.

It’s the fourth day of Christmas. I’ve long pondered on how to celebrate the twelve days between Christmas and Epiphany, not having (or wanting, really) any maids-a-milking or swans-a-swimming at my disposal. But I like the idea. Seems like in other countries celebrations last longer than a day, like Carnival. Here we’re so eager to get back to work.

But some years back I decided not to pay any attention to the post-Christmas blues. That the New Year is something to celebrate. One time I drove down to Columbus, Georgia in search of Ma Rainey’s house and grave. Another time I went hiking in the Slickrock Wilderness—that’s when I had my first panic attack but it was a good trip nonetheless. That was back when I had more time off so now that I don’t I’m trying to think of things that are celebrations for Edie and future critter. Right now, it’s 5:43 in the a.m. and JB’s fixing to go hunting as it’s the last week of deer season and you can only hunt does the first and last weeks.

The pot of coffee in the kitchen’s calling my name.

Advertisement